by Milly Adams
She felt Saul lift her in his strong arms. And although she should be strong, as Bet said the women on the canals were, Verity couldn’t hold back the tears at the thought of the endlessness of her life without the man she loved.
Chapter 3
Tuesday 28 March – 8 a.m. at Sid’s pub, Alperton
The next morning Tom leaned back against the side-wall of the pub at Alperton. His fractured shin ached even more in this bitter cold and itched beneath the plaster. His toes stuck out from the cast and, even though they were covered in a couple of army socks, were freezing cold. Yesterday the nurse had wrapped round some waterproof gear to keep the foot dry, which was a blessing. She was a good ’un, and was engaged to a matelot. Tom hoped he survived.
The hospital had been reluctant to discharge him, after just three days. He’d lied, explaining that he had to see off a relative who was embarking for who-knew-where. They had checked with his CO, who explained that Tom’s leave had been changed to sick leave, and if the doc thought he was able, then they should let him go.
The doc had finally signed the form, and the sister had given Tom a couple of sticks because he didn’t want the crutches, knowing he’d only get tangled up, getting on and off trains. He’d hitched his grip over his shoulder, wincing because it was still bruised from the crash between their jeep and the idiot on the motorbike; and had lurched off to the station yesterday afternoon. He’d continued sitting in the train when it jerked to a stop because of some signalling problem, but by the evening they’d all been turfed out, until the lines were sorted. He’d tried phoning the pub more than once from outside that station, but the damned Button A wouldn’t work, so he’d spent the night sitting huddled on the platform until the trains were up and running again this morning.
He straightened, took a walking stick in each hand and limped round to the pub’s entrance, which indeed faced the canal, as Verity had written. The snow – deep, crisp and even, as the carol said – hadn’t yet been cleared. Perhaps it was just as well, as ice tended to be more lethal than snow, and he didn’t fancy going over and doing even more damage to himself. He had to get fit, and quick.
He stared across the garden at the canal frontage, feeling nervous, excited … and what? But his thoughts were disturbed as he realised there were no boats moored up. Surely Verity had waited, after all this time – perhaps the boats were further along the bank?
He limped along the path towards the waterway, though it was more treacherous than it looked, because the ice beneath the snow had been scuffed into ridges. He made it to the bank unscathed and stared into the still water, where the ice lay in chunks. Presumably the boaters had bashed their way free. He checked both ways; not a sausage. He stared up at the stone-grey sky, which looked as cold as his bloody foot. His mouth was dry with despair. She’d gone. He looked both ways again, blinking. They weren’t tears, it was just the wind.
He swallowed and dragged out his handkerchief, wiping his face, blowing his nose and shoving the handkerchief back in his pocket. He straightened. God, he was a fool. He’d believed Verity’s words, but how stupid was that; he was only a damned chauffeur, like her mother had said, when she told him it had just been a game to Verity. She had insisted Verity wanted Tom to leave her alone so much that her mother was to pay him off, to make sure he did.
He rested on his walking sticks, more defeated than he’d ever felt in action. Was she bored, and thought she’d get back to playing her old game, when she knew he’d seen her from the bridge? Well, he thought, with rising pain and anger as he limped back down the path, that was the end of it; and what a fool he’d been to think otherwise.
He felt sick, and his head had begun to ache from tiredness and pain. He’d slog back into London proper and try and find somewhere to doss down for the rest of his sick leave. What then? Well, there’d be all the faffing about at the barracks; and when he was fit, there’d be training exercises, because – judging from the build-up of military transport – something would kick off soon. The big push? Well, he bloody hoped so. There was a war to win, and perhaps he’d get his head blown off, and who the hell would care? He certainly wouldn’t.
He dragged out his handkerchief and wiped his face again, slipped, then righted himself. ‘Bloody women,’ he muttered, just as he heard the bolts on the pub door being slid back.
The green front door opened, and an overweight middle-aged bloke stood there, with a black apron tied round his middle, smoking. There was a pencil behind his ear. ‘You looking for someone, lad?’
‘Not any more, I’m not. You’re Sid, are you?’ Their breath puffed out and merged. Tom rested on his sticks, easing his leg.
‘Yes, lad. That’s me – Sid, the publican. And you, my fine feller, ’ll be the missing love of ’er life. You tried phoning, did yer?’
Tom stared at him. ‘You know Lady Verity then?’
Sid stared back. ‘I knows Verity, right enough. Don’t know about any “Lady Verity”, and best yer don’t splash that around, cos she don’t, and the boaters might think it highfalutin.’ Sid tossed his cigarette into the snow. It hissed and died.
Tom said, ‘Lady or not, she didn’t have the decency to wait until I arrived. So that’s it then, I’m not playing her bloody silly games any more.’
The words hung between them, like their breath. Sid looked past him to the canal, digging his hands into his trouser pockets. ‘Them lasses have a schedule to keep, carrying war supplies, and no young pup should stand there on his one good leg and gainsay that. How’d you feel, back in the field, cos I can tell from the khaki greatcoat you’re wearin’ you’re likely to be there anytime soon. So, I say again, how’d yer feel if yer didn’t have no gun, cos the boaters had stopped off to wait for some tit-headed idiot who didn’t arrive when he said? Some khaki lad who couldn’t even totter with his sticks to the next phone box and try again. Cos it was yer, weren’t it, ringing and ringing?’
Tom rubbed his forehead, knocking his beret to one side, his bloody headache worse now. Sid was still looking at him, and Tom knew he had to say something, so although he still ached with anger he said, ‘I put my hand up – duff Button A.’
Sid had his papers and baccy out now and was rolling one. He raised an eyebrow and tipped the tobacco tin towards Tom, who shook his head.
‘I have my own, but haven’t a hand to dig ’em out while juggling these sticks.’
Sid turned and headed into the lobby. He stopped and looked back. ‘Come on, then; that were a hint, if ever I ’eard one. The missus will have a pot of tea on the go, so we’ll wrap ourselves round a cuppa. You can get yer smokes out while you think whether to turn tail or get a bit of backbone and go after the lass. She was saying early on in the evening that she’d leave a note for you, but she got a bit … well, you know, miserable; and had a pint or several too many.’
Tom looked back at the canal, then up at the sky. There was more snow to come. The wind lifted his beret, then it settled. His toes beneath the socks were numb. He could do with a cuppa to give him a bit of puff to get into London.
‘Just for a minute, then, Sid. Thanks.’ He limped into the lobby. Sid held open the door into the bar and jerked his head. ‘Hurry it up, then, we don’t want the wind takin’ the ’eat out of the place.’
Tom entered the darkness of the Public Bar, which was rich with the smell of beer, woodsmoke and last night’s tobacco. There was dead ash in the grate, and a scarf on the back of a chair at the table by the fireside. Surely it was …? He limped across the flagstones and reached out, fingering it. Yes, though the cashmere scarf was stained with oil and dirt, there was still the vestige of colour – and scent, Verity’s scent. Sid waited, holding up the hinged bar flap. ‘Yes, that’s yer lass’s. She forgot it, but someone will catch ’er up somewhere with it. That’s how dirty them girls get on the job.’
Tom dropped the scarf, letting it swing. He turned and saw the dartboard. He was flooded with memories: standing behind Verity, placing a dart into her smoo
th white hand. Verity leaning against him, the smell of her perfume. What had she called it? Was it ‘Happy’? No, no, that wasn’t it. ‘Joy’, that’s what it was. He looked again at the scarf. That was the smell. She had sat there in the warmth of the fire all evening, and then slept in the warmth of her Marigold overnight, unlike him. Had she been waiting to laugh at him? His head was beating a tattoo.
Sid called, ‘Cuppa or not? Make up your bleedin’ mind, cos I’m not standing ’ere all day, holding up the counter for the good of me ’ealth.’
Tom followed him into the kitchen, where a plump woman in an apron was up to her elbows in the sink. She looked over her shoulder. ‘Thought I ’eard you chatting, Sid. That’s Verity’s bloke, is it? Tea in the pot, then bugger off into the bar, I’m busy here. Don’t be long; you need to sort out the cellar and lay the fire, once you’ve sent ’im on whichever way he chooses. Shame she didn’t leave a note, but she was – let’s say – right conflummoxed, that she was, and who’s to blame ’er.’
Sid nodded and poured the tea. ‘Bit weak,’ he said to Tom. ‘Rationing, you know ’ow it is. We’ll take it out the sergeant-major’s way, cos she bites.’
Sid carried the two enamel mugs into the bar and led him to the fireside table.
‘All the pubs along the Grand Union Canal keep the fireside table for Polly and Verity, and if they don’t come, then it’ll be kept for their old instructor, Bet, now she’s back training on the cut.’ He gestured to the chair with Verity’s scarf. ‘Take the weight off your pins. Drop yer grip on the floor. Your leg?’
Tom sat, resting his walking sticks against the table, and letting his grip slide from his shoulder to the flagstones. ‘Bit of a road prang, busted my leg. So I’m on sick leave, and then I want to get back quick as I can, because—’ He stopped.
Sid nodded. ‘Yes, looks like a second front’s on the cards, so good luck to yer, lad.’
Tom sipped his tea, and it seemed to ease his head, just a fraction. He took out his roll-ups. He had a couple made up. ‘Have one, as thanks for the warmth, and the wet.’
Sid took one, and a light too, sucking in the nicotine and then exhaling up into the air. ‘Your Verity and her pal, Polly, play darts along the cut and bet on themselves. They keep the money in a kitty jar. When Joe, a youngster, got into trouble, they used the kitty money to help pay for a solicitor. Though the legal beak did it free in t’end, so that dosh is back in the jar, being added to for an emergency. They’re well liked, and ’ighly thought of, lad.’
What the hell did Tom care how highly thought of her high-and-mighty ladyship was? He drew on his roll-up and, as he sat back, the smell of Verity’s scarf seemed to waft ever more intensely: ‘Joy’ and dirt. He supposed, now that Verity had no staff, she didn’t turn her hand to washing. He drained his mug, waiting for Sid to do the same. They stubbed out their cigarettes in the ashtray, where there were other stubs stained with lipstick; it was Verity’s colour. So she could still afford lipstick in these days of rationing? Of course her sort always could.
Tom wanted to shred it, grind it into the ground, but he also wanted to put it in his pocket to keep it close. Oh God, his head was aching fit to burst, and it felt as though his heart was, too; and he couldn’t damn well think.
‘Well,’ he said finally, gathering his sticks together. ‘Best be off.’
He rose. Sid, too. The publican walked him to the bar door. ‘You didn’t ask me why the fireside table is always kept free for ’em, lad.’ He seemed to be barring the door.
Tom muttered, ‘No, I didn’t, cos it doesn’t interest me any more.’
Sid gripped his arm. ‘Then you’re a right bloody fool – just like I’d be, if I hadn’t chased after my missus. The least you could do is to catch ’er up and have a talk. You get her to tell you why they ’ave a reserved seat, just so’s you can see the sort of lass you’d be chucking away. What’s more, you should bloody believe her when she tells you the truth about the past, and the ruddy mess her mother made of the girl’s life, and yers too, no doubt. Believe ’er, not the mother – that’s what we think, them of us on the cut.’
Tom looked down at Sid’s hand, gripping him tightly enough to bruise. If he hadn’t a broken leg, he could down the bloke in a second.
Sid looked from his hand to Tom’s face. ‘D’you want to give it a try, lad? If so, be warned: I’ve chucked out better than you, with one ’and behind me back. You need to get yer ’ead in order, that you do. I sees it all the time – blokes looking into pint glasses, the pity for themselves dripping from ’em, their thoughts all in a tangle. If you’d been a man, you’d ’ave tapped your way to another phone box, course you would; and sorted this bloody mess, cos you ain’t lost the use of your legs. Not like some poor buggers. Yer just behaving like a bloody kid. Go after her and get the truth through yer noddle, for Gawd’s sake. Can’t ’ave the lass drinking herself stupid every night.’
Tom shook himself free and walked through into the lobby and out into daylight. It was snowing again, and the scuffed ridges on the path were almost completely hidden. He set off for the station, his head lowered as the snow grew heavier and seemed to deaden all sound. But he couldn’t get the remembered thud-thud of Verity’s darts out of his bursting head. And with the sound came the sight of her as they used to play in the Red Bull, the pub in a village near Sherborne; and Verity’s delight when she and he won.
He almost felt her throwing her arms around him. He heard her chatter as they walked back to Howard House, arm-in-arm, pledging their love. He felt he was breathing in the scent of her, and saw the plans of his garage that they drew in the air. A garage where he would mend cars, and she would keep the books, when this war was over. She’d take a class in bookkeeping, she’d said, and she’d learn how to type up invoices. Had it really been a game? Had it?
He paused. He had Verity’s recent letters in the pocket of his uniform, and they didn’t read like those of a girl in the middle of a game. Or did they? That was the trouble: how could he know? The day was so grey with cold that no bird sang and there was no one walking except for him, his sticks digging into the snow, his boot squeaking faintly as he peg-legged until he reached the station. He stopped, staring at the entrance, where sandbags were stacked. He could get on a train, find a room and leave Verity and her bloody letters and games for good and all, and then it would be over.
People were entering. The men had snow on their hats, the women snow on their umbrellas. But if he went without seeing her, he would never ever know the truth. One middle-aged ARP warden stopped and touched his arm. ‘You all right, sonny? Them toes must be ruddy freezing. Need an ’and?’
Tom shook his head. ‘Thanks, just taking a breather.’
‘You could take it in the dry?’ The warden’s eyes were kind.
Tom said, ‘You get on. I have to take a moment to sort me head out.’
The warden just nodded and walked on, before turning back, pulling the scarf around his mouth. Had Verity worn her scarf like that, around her face, her mouth – those lips that were still ‘Passion Pink’? He tried to feel nothing or, if not nothing, then anger, but all he could do was remember the scent of her; someone who was known only by her name, not her title.
The ARP warden said, ‘Easier sometimes to put yer thoughts into words, if yer talking to a stranger.’
Tom looked at the bloke. He found himself speaking, all in a rush. ‘I loved this Lady Verity, when I was her chauffeur. She said she loved me. We were going to work together, setting up a garage. Her mother came and said Verity was just bored, playing a game, and had asked her to give me money to bugger off and leave her alone. Or words to that effect. She then told Verity some cock-and-bull story about me wanting to leave, but demanding money to go. I believed it. She believed it. But we almost met, not long ago, and she wrote and said her mother had lied to us both. We agreed to meet. The train broke down – the lines, or something – and the phone box wouldn’t work, and she didn’t wait.’
&nb
sp; The bloke just stood there. ‘So you haven’t seen her?’
‘No.’
‘So you’ll never know the truth of it.’
Tom shook his head. ‘Not that I care any more.’ His head was really bursting now, and he inched towards the station.
But the ARP warden came with him and said, ‘Fine kettle of fish, I reckon. Yer should chase it down, lad. Could be yer’ve both grown up a bit since then, and wouldn’t be so ready to believe what someone else tells yer.’
Tom shook his head, and snow fell from his beret. He took one more step towards the station, then stopped again. He knew he could have walked to the next telephone box last night; he could even see the ruddy thing. But now he faced the truth – he’d wanted to test Verity, see if she’d wait, because that would prove she loved him. Did he also want to hurt her, worry her, as the Clement family had hurt him? He didn’t know, and didn’t want to think about the whole bloody mess any more. It was all such a damned muddle.
The ARP warden took another step with him. ‘I often wish I could talk things through with my missus, but she copped a bomb in the Blitz. Too late now ever to share a word with ’er – even a cross one, and we ’ad a few of them. That’s a heartbreak, lad, but yer can do summat about yours. But only you – if yer get me meaning.’
He walked on, leaving Tom motionless. He tried to follow, but the scent of Verity wouldn’t leave him, and neither would Sid’s words, or the ARP’s, or his memories, which were more vibrant and clear with every moment, and at last he nodded to himself. Oh, what the hell harm could it do, to take a canal girl her scarf? It wasn’t as though he had to be anywhere else.
He slipped and slid back to the pub. His headache was marginally easier by the time he rapped on the door. He shrugged when Sid opened it. ‘I thought Verity would need her scarf, so I might as well take it.’
