by Weaver, Pam
‘But surely they could see the old duck was doolally?’ he said angrily.
‘That only makes her all the more vulnerable,’ Ruby said, wiping her eyes with her handkerchief. ‘Unless she tells them what really happened, they’re going to believe the worst, aren’t they? It’s dreadfully unfair, but what can I do?’
Percy put his hand over hers. ‘Take your time, Sis,’ he said. ‘Have a good look around Worthing for a job and, if that doesn’t work, try further afield. What about nursery work? There are plenty of glasshouses around here.’
‘There isn’t much planting and picking in January,’ she said. ‘Ask John.’ Their tea arrived and Ruby welcomed its steaming warmth.
‘Your wage isn’t so vital, now that I’m back home,’ he said.
‘You’re a good man, Percy Bateman,’ said Ruby miserably.
‘I don’t know about that,’ he said.
‘How about I come on the boat with you?’ she said. ‘You need a mate.’
‘But you’re a woman,’ Percy laughed.
‘I had noticed,’ said Ruby.
Percy’s expression changed. ‘It’s bad luck to have a woman on board.’
‘Oh, stuff and nonsense!’ said Ruby. ‘This is the twentieth century, Percy, not the Middle Ages. Surely you don’t believe all that superstitious claptrap?’
Percy gave her a long, hard stare. ‘I’m not taking a woman aboard,’ he said firmly.
‘But …’ Ruby began.
Her brother raised his hand to silence her. ‘You heard me,’ he said. ‘Now drink up and stop worrying. It’ll be fine.’
CHAPTER 22
Linton Carver was scared. Somebody knew.
He never had letters. He’d lived in the same house all his life and the only time the postman ever brought anything with his name on, it was a bill. When he was a boy he’d come from a large family, but no one ever wrote to him. Unless his Aunt Mabel told them otherwise, they probably thought he had died in the Great War, or perhaps in the worldwide flu epidemic in 1918. Maybe they’d died themselves. Millions of others in the Empire had. He’d never got in touch to find out.
Linton had never had a lady friend, either. In fact he might still have been a virgin himself if it hadn’t been for that woman in the barn. The shame of what he had done eighteen years ago still haunted him. It was the stuff of all his nightmares.
It was only 1914, but they’d been desperate to get away from the guns and the gas, and the smell of chewed-up body parts of the people who had once been friends. Victor had been the first to take off; and the others, including Linton himself, just followed. They’d walked through the woods and, as the sounds of battle grew fainter, they’d heard the birds. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard birdsong. It had brought tears to his eyes.
Then Victor had told them he wasn’t going back and had smashed up his rifle. It was an act of pure defiance, but perhaps if he had known what was about to happen, he might have thought twice about doing it. Whoever sent this letter must have known all about it.
Linton turned the envelope over in his hands and trembled. The postmark read: Worthing, 6.30 p.m., January 6th, 1934. Oh, God, whoever posted this lived in the town. They weren’t far away. Perhaps they’d actually seen him in the street. The envelope didn’t contain much. One sheet of paper with just two words, and it meant only one thing – someone knew what they’d done: ‘Remember Victor.’
He was suddenly desperate for the toilet. His stomach churned and his bladder felt fit to burst. He went outside and into the yard. It might be the depth of winter, with temperatures low enough to freeze a penguin’s balls, but the outside lavatory still reeked of dung and Jeyes fluid. He yanked off his coat, pulled down his braces and trousers, only just making it as he sat over the hole in the wooden seat. As he defecated, his legs shook, not with the cold, but with fear.
Who had sent it? Who knew? He’d been so sure that, with Nelson gone, he was safe. What was that person going to do? What happened to Nelson: was it an accident or not? And, if not an accident, then it must be murder. Linton hadn’t had much of a life since he’d been gassed, but he wasn’t ready to die, not yet.
He was crying now; huge, gulping silent sobs that racked his whole body. It always got to him like that, when he remembered.
They had stayed in the barn until nightfall. They knew they had to go back before they were missed, but they had to work out what to say about Victor’s rifle. They’d settled on a plan and were about to set off when the woman came into the barn, leading a horse. They’d watched her take off the saddle and begin rubbing the animal down with some straw. After a while Nelson began to rub his dick, matching her movements on the horse’s back, stroke for stroke. Then George did the same thing. It wouldn’t have mattered, but one of them moaned and suddenly the woman realized she wasn’t alone.
Linton’s first thought was that they had to make her understand she mustn’t tell the authorities they’d been there, but there was a language barrier. Besides, the others had other ideas. It all happened so bloody quick. They’d barged past him, and Nelson had grabbed the woman while George held her down. She’d begged them to stop. He couldn’t understand a word she’d said, but he recognized the panic in her voice and he’d seen her tears. He and Victor had told them to stop, but as he watched what Nelson was doing, something stirred in his own loins. Victor tried to pull Nelson off, but George shoved him so hard that he fell against the horse and, already spooked by their angry voices, the animal lashed out with his hoof. Victor was knocked out cold. George and Nelson swapped places and, while Nelson held her down, George did it too. Linton’s mind was on fire. He’d never felt such strong feelings. For the first time in his life he was fully aroused, and the more he watched, the more inflamed he became. Then they were inviting him to take what he wanted. The woman was quiet now. She just lay there. She wasn’t struggling any more. They told her she’d enjoyed them so much, she was begging for more and … And …
He shuddered and started to cough. It was bloody cold in the privy and he’d finished. He reached for the torn-up newspaper hanging on the nail, to wipe himself clean, but he didn’t go back indoors. Instead he leaned forward and, putting his head in his hands, wept quietly as the shame overwhelmed him once again. May God forgive him, because he couldn’t forgive himself … And now he’d had this letter. Somebody else knew.
‘Ruby, what’s wrong?’
She looked up at Jim’s anxious face and smiled. ‘Nothing. I’m just thinking how much I’m going to miss you, that’s all.’ They were in Warwick Studios, a rare time of being alone. Jim’s boss, Leonard Hayward, was doing a family portrait at a client’s home, and Ruby had come to help Jim pack. It turned out that he didn’t need any help, as he had already packed his little case, which was back at his lodgings, and he wasn’t taking any equipment with him to Wimborne. They both knew it was just an excuse to be together one last time before he left.
Jim had made tea and, after showing her a magazine with his winning picture next to an article, they’d sat together on the horsehair sofa. His ardent kisses grew stronger and he had his hand on Ruby’s breast when she stopped him gently. ‘Jim, we mustn’t.’
‘I know, I know, but I want you so much, Ruby,’ he said. He kissed her some more and this time his hand strayed onto her thigh.
She pulled away again.
‘You’re trembling,’ he said, pulling her head onto his chest and making himself more comfortable on the hard sofa. ‘I know you’re worrying about something. I want you to know that I would never hurt you, Ruby. I want you more than I can say, but I will never make you do something you’re not comfortable with.’
Ruby picked at a loose bit of wool on his Fair Isle pullover. ‘It’s not that,’ she said.
‘Then what?’
The words stuck in her throat.
‘If we are to go any further with this relationship,’ he said gravely, ‘and I sincerely hope we will, we must have no secrets. I don’t want to
be with anyone who doesn’t tell the truth and keeps things from me.’
She sat up and looked at him. ‘Oh, Jim,’ she said, touching his cheek. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know how to tell you …’
‘Tell me what?’
‘I … I’ve lost my job.’
‘The hotel is cutting down on staff?’ he queried. ‘But you always said they didn’t have enough.’
‘I mean, I’ve got the sack,’ she said quietly.
He stared at her uncomprehendingly. ‘The sack? But why? What happened?’
So she told him. ‘When did all this happen?’
‘Christmas Eve,’ said Ruby.
‘Christmas Eve! My dear girl,’ he cried, ‘you’ve kept this to yourself all this time?’ He looked genuinely upset. ‘You should have told me.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, her bottom lip quivering and her eyes filling. ‘I didn’t know how to.’
‘Promise me,’ he said, taking both her hands in his, ‘promise that you won’t ever do this again.’
‘But I didn’t take the brooch,’ she cried helplessly. ‘And if you think—’
‘No, no,’ he cried. ‘I meant that you should have told me about losing your job. You must tell me everything. My darling girl, I want you to be my wife some day. I can’t bear to think that you were suffering all this time and I knew nothing about it.’
She was aware that her mouth had dropped open. ‘Your wife?’
‘I love you, Ruby Bateman,’ he laughed. ‘Don’t tell me you didn’t realize that?’
‘I didn’t,’ she whispered. ‘I didn’t dare to hope … Oh, Jim, this is the most wonderful day of my life.’ She was laughing and crying at the same time. She flung her arms around his neck and kissed his cheek. He found her lips and returned her kisses with a growing passion. She knew she should stop him, but now it was doubly difficult. He loved her; he wanted to marry her. Her blouse was coming undone.
‘Ruby, oh, Ruby,’ he moaned as his fingers went under her chemise and found her hardened nipple. His tongue filled her mouth and every part of her mind was racing; her body began to yield; she was giving herself to the feeling he’d created … And then they heard the key in the door.
They sprang apart. Ruby pulled her clothing together. Jim stood up and, running his fingers through his untidy hair, called out, ‘You’re back early, sir. Is there something I can do to help?’
Ruby heard a man’s voice say, ‘I’ve still got a few boxes in the car. Give us a hand, will you?’
While Jim headed towards the corridor leading to the street, Ruby grabbed her blouse and made her way to the WC. Safely behind the locked door, she dressed and made herself respectable again, before going back out. She could hear the two men bringing photographic equipment into the studio. She glanced at her reflection in the mottled mirror hanging from a nail over the sink. Her cheeks were flushed. She splashed cold water onto her face and reduced the colour a little. Her heartbeat had slowed, but the blood in her veins pulsated with the knowledge: he loves you … Jim loves you …
‘Hey up, Percy.’
Percy looked up to see Barnabas West, his old friend. Percy hadn’t seen him since they’d shared a billet together in the Black House. Barney was coming across the pebbles and onto the beach. His cheerful greeting had made Percy jump.
‘Barney,’ he smiled and struggled to his feet to shake his hand. It was a welcome interruption. Percy’s fingers were frozen and the chill wind was eating into his bones. ‘What on earth are you doing in Worthing?’
‘Looking for you,’ said Barney, pumping his hand. ‘You’re a hard man to find.’
‘I can’t think why,’ said Percy. He had been sitting with his back to the sea, still cleaning and repairing the fishing gear, ready for a change in the weather. ‘You knew my family were fishermen, didn’t you?’
Barney shrugged. ‘You may have mentioned it.’
Percy felt a little uncomfortable calling himself a fisherman. In fact he had only managed a couple of trips since he’d been back home. He’d gone out with a young lad close to school leaving age, who was at a loose end, but they hadn’t caught much. Percy had begun to realize that he not only hated fishing, but he just didn’t have the knack for it. Either that, or it was as the other fishermen said, and the boat was cursed.
‘I reckon Nelson caught the king of the mackerel,’ Silas had told him, ‘and never threw him back.’ He’d shaken his head and sucked hard on his pipe. ‘Bad omen that.’
Percy had tried to laugh it off as a silly superstition, but with the kind of luck he was having right now, it was getting harder and harder to dismiss the thought.
‘Is this your boat?’ Barney remarked.
‘It is now,’ said Percy. He spat into the wind and, as if to spite him, it started to snow.
Barney looked around. ‘Is there a tea room or a cafe around here? Somewhere we could talk?’
He helped Percy put everything back into the locker and they set off for the Seagull Cafe on the Brighton Road. It sounded a lot more attractive than it looked, but Percy welcomed the mug of tea, which warmed his hands as he waited for the plate of egg and chips Barney had ordered for him.
‘They want you to come back to HQ and work for the movement,’ said Barney through the haze of blue smoke between them, a mixture of burnt fat in the frying pan and cigarette smoke.
‘I’d like to,’ said Percy, ‘but I can’t afford it. My father was drowned and it’s up to me to carry on, for the sake of my mother and my sisters.’
‘Listen, Perce,’ said Barney, leaning forward in a confidential manner, ‘the movement is growing faster than anyone ever dreamed. The membership already stands at nearly twenty thousand. Twenty thousand!’
Percy choked on a chip. So it really was coming to that …
‘They reckon, if things carry on this way, it’ll be fifty thousand by the summer,’ Barney went on, ‘maybe a hundred thousand by the end of the year and I’m not exaggerating, either. The point is, you don’t have to come back as a volunteer. You can get paid.’
‘I’m not good at paperwork,’ said Percy, shaking his head.
‘It’s not paperwork they want you for,’ said Barney. ‘It’s recruitment.’
Percy stopped chewing and looked up at him.
‘We’ve got the ex-army blokes to drill them, but we need more men. We need one of their own, who can tell them what a difference they can make. We need a working-class man to attract working-class men into the ranks.’
‘And you think I can do that?’
‘We know you can,’ said Barney. ‘You were top dog at the Black House, and people looked up to you. You’re fit, clean-living, a no-nonsense sort of a bloke – just the kind of man we want.’
Percy kept his eyes on his plate. ‘There are some things I don’t agree with,’ he began.
‘You and me both, pal,’ said Barney. ‘But everybody is entitled to have a personal opinion. Fascism doesn’t deny the right to free speech; in fact we champion it.’
Percy jabbed at the yolk of his egg with a chip and they both watched the yellow liquid run onto the plate.
‘Where is the perfect organization anyway, Percy?’ said Barney persuasively. ‘If you find it, don’t tell me to join. I’ll mess it up on day one.’
‘Fishing has been in my family for generations,’ said Percy, finally looking up at his friend.
‘Like Jesus said,’ Barney grinned, ‘Fascism will make you a fisher of men.’
Their eyes met, as Barney’s blasphemy hung between them.
Percy smiled. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Give me a few days to think about it.’
CHAPTER 23
Bea had spent some time putting May’s birthday presents away. It was Saturday, January 20th, and although May’s birthday had been on the Tuesday, this was the best day for a birthday tea. Coming so soon after Christmas made it a little difficult, but Bea did her best to make the day special. It hadn’t been much of a celebration, but she had managed to
give her youngest child a small cake, some sandwiches, and jelly and ice cream for her eighth birthday. May had invited three little friends over, and Ruby had helped by organizing some games. The old favourites were the best: Blind-Man’s Buff, Pass the Parcel and Hunt the Thimble. It wasn’t as lavish as her previous birthday had been, but Bea was confident that May had enjoyed herself; and when her daughter blew out the candles on her cake, Bea had made a wish on her behalf that her birthday next year would be much better.
Bea had also got into the habit of keeping a weather eye on some of her neighbours. Times were hard for everybody and she couldn’t do much, but sometimes a friendly face and a chat over a cup of tea were all that was needed. If they weren’t too proud, she would rub the duster over the furniture and sweep up. Sometimes she would take the sheets home to wash. She never looked for payment or reward, but it often came anyway. She had been coming to Mabel Harris’s place for years. ‘There’s a couple of self-seeded potatoes still in the ground,’ Mabel had said one day. ‘You dig ’em up and we’ll share ’em.’ The ground was hard and it was difficult to get the spade in, but the crop had served them well. The potatoes were a good size and healthy.
Mabel’s little garden was a wilderness now. When her husband was alive, it had neat rows of potatoes, carrots and runner beans. Mabel herself had been a seamstress, but with the advancing years, her arthritis made it too painful to sew. As she gradually got rid of her sewing things, whatever she couldn’t sell she gave to Bea. Ribbons, poppers and buttons were always useful, and Bea put them in her sewing box.
Today Bea had little energy to work, so she satisfied herself with a bit of dusting and washing up some dishes left in the sink. After that, they sat down for a friendly chat.
