What Have I Done?

by Amanda Prowse

  Reg looked at his wife and eldest daughter as they buttoned up their macs and tied their scarves. ‘Is that it then? Are you two off gallivanting and leaving me to it?’

  ‘Looks like it.’ His wife smiled as she pecked him on the cheek.

  ‘But this is women’s work! And you never did tell me what was for tea.’

  ‘That, my darling, is cos I don’t know what will be left over tonight. Might be salad, might be steak! Who knows?’

  ‘Yeah!’ Dot added, for no reason other than to join in the fun.

  ‘And you can keep your oar out of it. And by the way, Dot, your fringe n’arf looking curly!’

  Dot’s parting shot was to poke her tongue out at her dad.

  ‘If the wind changes you’ll be stuck like that!’ He laughed.

  ‘Oh, well, that explains it, is that what happened to you then?’ She managed to have the last word, this time.

  The kitten heels of mother and daughter clicked their way along the Limehouse pavement.

  ‘You working tonight, Joan?’

  Their neighbour, Mrs Harrison, leant heavily against her open front door. She took a deep drag on her John Player Special, the smoke from which swirled upwards, further discolouring the yellow fringe that she kept permanently wrapped in two plastic curlers, imprisoned behind a blue hair net. Mrs Harrison ran the grandly named ‘Ropemakers Fields Guest House’, which for a couple of quid a night provided a bedroom full of clashing florals and mismatched furniture and use of a Goblin Teasmade for weary dock workers who were far from home. Her tall, thin, stooped frame was clad, as usual, in a flowery wrap-around pinny. Her mouth curved into its familiar downward slant and her eyes roamed over Joan and Dot with the usual look of sour disappointment. Dot used to wonder what it would be like if Mrs Harrison ever received some good news – which hadn’t happened in all the years she had known her. Would she whoop, shout and yell? She thought not. Dot peeked through the door to the grotty boarding house; it always looked dark and gave off the faintest odour of boiled cabbage. Their neighbour stood with one arm across her flat chest and the other lifting her fag to her thin lips.

  ‘Yes, Mrs Harrison, unfortunately. No rest for the wicked!’ Joan hurried past, not wanting to engage any further than she had to.

  ‘That’s what they say,’ Mrs Harrison replied.

  Dot found Mrs Harrison’s company boring and depressing, but she was her best mate’s aunty, so she had to be careful.

  ‘You seeing our Barb later, Dot? I’ve got her mum’s Avon catalogue here that wants collecting. I’m running low on me night cream.’

  Her skin was pitted, furrowed and a little grimy. Dot thought, uncharitably, that it would take more than a jar of night cream to fix it. ‘I might be, I’ll tell her when I see her.’

  ‘Thanks, love.’ A smile threatened to crease her face but was gone before it was fully formed. Audrey Harrison did not have much to smile about. Her life had been a series of disappointments, starting with the feckless, unfaithful husband that had gone and got himself killed in the war. Although, strangely, once he was dead, his fecklessness and infidelity seemed to have been quite forgotten. As Dot’s nan once pointed out, they never seem to bury any crap or useless husbands, only the ‘loving and devoted’ ones, if the gravestones in the churchyard were anything to go by.

  ‘She’s such a nosey old cow,’ Joan whispered. The two women laughed as they quickened their pace towards Narrow Street. Just in time to see their bus pulling up to the kerb. Dot screamed and ran ahead, waving her arms and running as fast as she was able in her silly heels on the icy pavement. The conductor waved back and waited until mother and daughter, their faces flushed, had plonked themselves down on the narrow seat that ran along the side of the bottom deck. They laughed as their breath blew clouds into the number 278 that would take them up the road.

  Joan Simpson licked her fingers, then wiped them down the front of her starched white pinny, leaving a long smear of mayonnaise across her front. Her mouth mumbled with the inaudible calculations that ensured her pastry always puffed to perfection and her aspic chilled to a fine wobble.

  ‘Tenminutesmoreshoulddoit, thenicanplateitup, getitallout…’

  She blew her blunt fringe upwards and wiped the sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. Her eyes darted between her daughter, who was standing in front of her, fiddling with the collar of her white blouse and pulling and twisting at her black pinafore, and the plate of devilled eggs that she now arranged with deft fingers on the counter top.

  ‘Right, love, listen. The main buffet is all laid out on the trestle in the corner; everyone will help themselves a bit later on. Serviettes, plates and whatnot are already on the table. Just keep an eye out, make sure that no platters run empty, we can refill them in here. Look for anyone that’s missing a serviette or cutlery, that kind of thing. You know what’s what; it’s not as if you haven’t done it before. These are just bits to pass around until they eat proper, so let’s get them out there and served or they’ll be on the turn and I haven’t been slaving away all day in this bloody kitchen so that you can ruin my food!’

  ‘I hate doing this, Mum!’

  ‘Really? You haven’t mentioned it.’

  ‘It’s just so embarrassing. They’re always old-timers who smell like lavender and tell me how lucky I am to be a teenager now and not twenty years ago. I know I’m lucky, I don’t need reminding by some stinky pensioner every five minutes.’

  ‘Dot, please, just shut up and take the bloody food in!’

  ‘I am! It’s just so unfair and anyway, in three years I’ll be twenty-one and then I’ll be free to do what I bloody want.’

  Joan dipped into the metal tray under the counter top and lifted a large serving spoon in her direction. ‘Oi! Less of the “bloody”, missus. Until you are actually twenty-one, you are not too old for a ladling!’

  ‘A ladling? You just made that up! And you say “bloody” all the time!’ Dot concentrated on her outstretched arm, grappling with the wide silver platter that threatened to slide off the folded white linen cloth on which it sat.

  ‘Yes I do, because I can, and when you’re as old as me you can swear as much as you like. In the meantime, get that food out!’

  Dot drew a deep breath and faced the double swing door that would reveal her in all her shame to the awaiting guests. ‘I’m never going to be old,’ she offered over her shoulder.

  ‘You’re right, Dot. If you carry on defying me and those canapés spoil, you won’t make twenty-one – I’ll bloody kill ya!’

  Mother and daughter laughed until they snorted. Dot shook her head to compose herself. It was bad enough having to go out looking like a prize plum, trussed up like a Christmas pudding, without snorting her way through the crowd as well.

  ‘What are you waiting for now?’

  ‘I’m just composing meself!’

  ‘Composing yourself? Christ alive, Dot! Just get that food out now!’

  ‘All right, all right – I’m going.’

  ‘And come straight back for the vol-au-vents!’ Joan bellowed at her daughter’s disappearing back.

  Dot pushed against the plushly padded velour door with its brass studs, which reminded her of a sideways sofa. She strained to hear the music that was coming from the grand piano in the corner; the sultry tones of Etta James drifted from the gramophone and the musician played along with the record. She glimpsed the bowed head of the black pianist, who with eyes closed and neck bowed was tickling the ivories.

  ‘At last

  My love has come along

  My lonely days are over

  And life is like a song’

  She loved the song and she hummed it inside her head as she wandered among the thirty or so guests. This room had always fascinated her: the polished dark-wood floor and the light from the huge chandelier meant everything sparkled. Vast oil paintings hung on the walls, each one of a military man either on horseback or with his weapon of choice held aloft. It intrigued her ho
w such a large group of people could be gathered in one room and yet the loudest sound was the chink of glass against glass, with only the faintest hum of background chatter and the odd tinkle of delicate laughter. In the Victorian terrace where she lived with her mum, dad and little sister it was never quiet. If not loud music from the radio and the bashing of pots and pans in the kitchen, then the whistling of the kettle and the shouts of questions and instructions up and down the stairs:

  ‘CUP OF TEA?’

  ‘ONLY IF YOU’RE MAKING!’

  ‘WHERE ARE MY CLEAN SHIRTS?’

  ‘IN THE AIRING CUPBOARD!’

  The fact that someone might be a whole floor away from you was no reason to exclude them from the conversation.

  ‘Would-you-like-a-devilled-egg?’ Dot lowered her natural volume and used her posh voice, just as she had been taught.

  A bushy-moustached man in naval uniform with flash gold epaulettes practically dived onto the tray. She watched him scoop a handful of delicate white ovals from the platter and cram them into his gob. At least she could tell her mum that someone appreciated her cooking.

  ‘Not for me, dear.’ His wife raised her white-gloved hand. A pity; the poor woman looked like she would benefit from the odd devilled egg. She was stick thin and her paisley-print, bat-wing frock hung off her tiny frame. She had drawn her eyebrows way too high on her forehead; like a dolly peg, Dot thought.

  Next she infiltrated a group of elderly men and women who collectively smelled of dust and fish paste. ‘Would-you-like-a-devilled-egg?’ She proffered the tray in the direction of one old bloke.

  ‘Would I what?’ he yelled at her.

  Dot bit the inside of her cheeks, praying she wouldn’t get the giggles and immensely glad that Barb wasn’t around; if she had caught her friend’s eye, she would have been in hysterics. She gave a small cough and tried again in her low, posher-than-usual voice. ‘Would-you-like-a-devilled-egg?’

  ‘Is it something about my leg?’ he yelled again.

  ‘Your leg? NO, NO. WOULD YOU CARE FOR A DEVILLED EGG?’ This time she over-enunciated every word. It took a monumental effort to stop her from laughing out loud.

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t care for much, lost my brother in the war y’see.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that, sir, but can I tempt you?’ This time she lifted the tray until it was practically under his schnoz.

  ‘What is that?’ he asked, prodding at the softened offering.

  ‘They are canapés, sir.’

  ‘Cans of what?’

  Dot felt her shoulders begin to shake. A ripple of laughter was working its way up her throat and down her nose; she felt fit to explode.

  ‘Excuse me a mo, I’ll be right back.’ She thought it best to make a hasty retreat to the kitchen and compose herself. Turning quickly, she failed to see that another devilled-egg seeker in military uniform was standing not a foot behind her. It was a collision of comical proportions.

  The tray of canapés flipped from her arm and stuck to the front of his tunic. Squashed eggs and mayonnaise sat like a cloying, liquid blanket on his jacket. One hollowed-out egg was actually lodged on a brass button. Almost immediately the silver platter hit the floor with an almighty crash. Both parties bent to retrieve the tray and, with perfect timing, bashed their heads together, sending her flying along the newly polished wooden floor and leaving him clutching his forehead with mayonnaise-smeared palms.

  Momentarily dazed, Dot was aware of several shouts of ‘Oh no!’ and the collective gasps of thirty of London’s finest watching as she went sprawling. She lay back and looked up at the ceiling, noticing for the first time that it was painted with the most beautiful mural. Fat-bottomed cherubs played harps and lutes in each corner and there was a gold table stacked high with bowls of fruit and flagons of wine. Clouds parted to reveal a heavily bearded God with his arms spread wide and beams of sunlight shining through the gaps. She was captivated. Lowering her eyes from the ceiling, she saw a circle of faces above her. Dolly-peg lady, greedy bastard and the dust-and-fish-paste gang were among them. Someone reached into the circle and held onto both her hands, then she felt herself being pulled swiftly upwards.

  Finally upright, her attention was drawn to her right and the smeared khaki and tarnished brass of a uniform that had met with an unfortunate accident involving a platter of eggs. Dot bit her bottom lip. What had she done? Joan would go mad.

  She looked up at her rescuer. Her breath caught in her throat and her knees buckled slightly as she swayed. She was staring into the face of a black man and he was holding her hands. She was caught somewhere between fascination and fear; she’d never seen a black person up this close before, let alone held hands with one. But what surprised her more than anything was that it was the most beautiful face she had ever seen. He was the piano player.

  ‘Are you all right?’ His voice was like liquid chocolate, deep, smooth and with an accent she couldn’t place, like American, but different. His big eyes, framed with thick curly lashes were so dark, she couldn’t see where the pupil stopped and the iris started.

  ‘I’m fine. You all right?’ she countered, looking at him through lowered lashes and wishing she had put more lipstick on.

  ‘Oh, I’m fine, thank you, but I’m not the one that’s been wrestling on the floor with men old enough to know better!’

  ‘D’you think anyone noticed?’ She smiled

  The pianist cast his eye over the mess and the bemused onlookers. ‘No, I don’t think anyone noticed a thing.’

  He hesitated. ‘I don’t know your name?’

  ‘Dot.’

  ‘Dot? As in dash, dash, dash, dot, dot—’

  ‘Yep, as in Dot.’ She smiled.

  ‘Is it short for anything?’

  ‘Ah, well, there’s a tale. Apparently me dad was one over the eight when he went to register my birth in Canning Town. Mum was still lying in and when they asked him my name, he couldn’t remember that it was supposed to be Dorothy – after Dorothy Squires, no less! – and so he said “Dorothea”, but I’ve only ever been known as Dot. That’s me, I’m just a Dot!’

  He studied her face, her wide smile, the peachy skin with the smattering of freckles across her straight nose. Her eyes were wide and sparkling – whether from her bump on the head or something else entirely he couldn’t be sure.

  ‘But I think you are more than just a Dot. If you hadn’t been there to provide the evening’s entertainment, I’d still be stuck in there trying not to look bored. You have been the highlight of my evening so far – although the night is young.’

  ‘Ha! Let me tell you, I’ve met the whole gang up there and I am definitely the highlight of your evening.’

  ‘I think you might be right.’ He gave an almost imperceptible wink.

  ‘And when you are calling me Dot, what should I call you?’

  ‘Sol, short for Solomon. My dad wasn’t one over the eight when I was registered.’

  ‘Well, lucky old you. And what does Solomon mean?’

  ‘It means “Peace”.’

  Available 1st July 2013

  Poppy Day — Preview

  Read on for the first chapter of

  How far would you go to bring home the one you love?

  A gripping story of loss and courage from army wife Amanda Prowse.

  1

  The major yanked first at one cuff and then the other, ensuring three-eighths of an inch was visible beneath his tunic sleeves. With his thumb and forefinger he circled his lips, finishing with a small cough, designed to clear the throat. He nodded in the direction of the door, indicating to the accompanying sergeant that he could proceed. He was ready.

  ‘Coming!’ Poppy cast the sing-song word over her shoulder in the direction of the hallway, once again making a mental note to fix the front door bell as the internal mechanism grated against the loose, metal cover. The intensely irritating sound had become part of the rhythm of the flat. She co-habited with an orchestra of architectural ailments, th
e stars of which were the creaking hinge of the bedroom door, the dripping bathroom tap and the whirring extractor fan that now extracted very little.

  Poppy smiled and looped her hair behind her ears. It was probably Jenna, who would often nip over during her lunch break. Theirs was a comfortable camaraderie, arrived at after many years of friendship; no need to wash up cups, hide laundry or even get dressed, they interacted without inhibition or pretence. Poppy prepped the bread and counted the fish fingers under the grill, working out how to make two sandwiches instead of one, an easy calculation. She felt a swell of happiness.

  The front door bell droned again, ‘All right! All right!’ Poppy licked stray blobs of tomato ketchup from the pads of her thumbs and laughed at the impatient digit that jabbed once more at the plastic circle on the outside wall.

  Tossing the checked tea towel onto the work surface, she stepped into the hallway and looked through the safety glass at the top of the door, opaque through design and a lack of domesticity. Poppy slowed down until almost stationary, squinting at the scene in front of her, as though by altering her viewpoint, she could change the sight that greeted her. Her heart fluttered in an irregular beat. Placing a flattened palm against her breastbone, she tried to bring calm to her flustered pulse. The surge of happiness disappeared, forming a ball of ice that sank down into the base of her stomach, filling her bowels with a cold dread. Poppy wasn’t looking at the silhouette of her friend; not a ponytail in sight. Instead, there were two shapes, two men, two soldiers.

  She couldn’t decide whether to turn and switch off the grill or continue to the front door and let them in. The indecision rendered her useless. She concentrated on staying present, feeling at any point she might succumb to the maelstrom within her mind. The whirling confusion threatened to make her faint. She shook her head, trying to order her thoughts. It worked.

  She wondered how long they would be, how long it would all take. There were fish fingers to eat and she was due back at the salon in half an hour with a shampoo and set arriving in forty minutes. Poppy thought it strange how an ordinary day could be made so very extraordinary. She knew the small details of every action, usually forgotten after one sleep, would stay with her forever; each minute aspect indelibly etching itself on her memory. The way her toes flexed and stiffened inside her soft, red socks, the pop and sizzle of her lunch under the grill and the way the TV was suddenly far too loud.