The next afternoon they were issued with paper and pencils and ordered to write an essay on ‘Why the unjust aggressor is in Korea’. Jack managed to take two pieces of paper and, writing on both sides of one, he kept the other so his lessons could begin again that night with Steve.
And so the hours and the days slowly passed. Sometimes there were letters though none from Rosie, but then many people had none. They wrote letters too, but doubted that any were sent.
January became February and then it was March which limped into April and the days were still filled with boredom, with hunger, with cold and nothing changed with the coming of spring but the weather.
CHAPTER 23
By mid December ’51 Rosie and Mario had extended the club, using the annexe for tables, leaving space in the back room for dancing. Luke and Sandy had left to tour Britain, along with the Larkhill Boys Rosie had met in the club with Joe.
‘Bookings are good,’ Luke rang to say. ‘Full houses everywhere. Harry’s bought himself another gold watch. You’ll be able to do the same.’
‘Or maybe Father Christmas will do that for me,’ Rosie laughed. ‘See you in January. Take care, all of you.’ She put the phone down and looked round her small flat.
The table lamps lit the room softly, illuminating Grandpa’s books. He would like it here, not as much as in his own home, but he would like it. There was a small half-knitted cardigan lying on the workbasket. She reached for it, began knitting, listening to the fire which hissed in the grate. She missed Luke and the boys. She measured the length of the cardigan then decreased for the armhole. It was ten o’clock. She was tired. She should sleep but each day and each night she waited for Joe to phone with news of Jack. He hadn’t yet.
She finished the armholes, caught the remaining stitches on a holder, cast on for the left front, knitted up to the armhole, but her eyes were dry and sore. Rosie looked at the clock again. Eleven. She put her knitting away and went to bed, hearing Lucia breathing quietly in the cot beside her. The baby hadn’t stirred since her feed at ten. She would sleep through until seven. She was perfect.
On 19 December she received a Christmas card from Frank and Nancy together with a present of a $50 bill which she put into the bank with the rest of her money. There would be no gold watch for her. There was a long future to build. She read their letter as she waited for the spaghetti to cook in the café kitchen.
Lower Falls
15th December
Dearest Rosie,
Well, your skis are still in your room, the snow is here but you aren’t. We understand though, really we do. Joe told us how busy you are and we can remember how hard we worked when we took over the paper. One day, we’ll come to you.
Frank is well. He writes his columns, and edits the paper unofficially, makes his ‘pinko’ stand for common sense. Two of his friends still can’t find regular work but pick up whatever they can. They will never write again, as long as McCarthy can stand up and give the performances that he does.
It is thought that maybe Eisenhower will throw his hat into the ring for the elections. Maybe he will be able to bring him to heel. Enough of that. We survive. I hope it isn’t that which keeps you from us? But even as I say that, I know it can’t be. Forgive me. It’s just that you start leaping at shadows some days, so many friends have turned their backs.
It was so strange, wasn’t it, the way the shooting stopped in Korea at the end of November following the establishment of the truce line along the 38th parallel. Joe filed his copy on it, saying no one ordered it, it just happened. For a moment there was peace.
I can’t hold out much hope on a full armistice for a long while. The repatriation of the prisoners of war is the stumbling block. Have you heard from Jack? What is that boy playing at? How did you get on with Joe? He’s a good reporter. He’s sending back some good copy.
Have a wonderful Christmas, Rosie. The house will be empty without you, darling. Dare we say we will see you in 1952?
Your ever loving
Nancy
Nancy did not mention the feature Rosie had written about the Festival. Perhaps there was too much happening with them over there. Rosie wished she could go, but she couldn’t.
Mrs Orsini, Mario and Rosie decorated the café and the club the next day, tying together holly with red ribbon bought from Mrs Eaves, pinning it up in corners, sitting Lucia up in her pram so that she could see, stringing streamers across the room. The customers helped. Mrs Eaves helped too and somehow there was enough laughter to wash away another Christmas without Jack, without news even.
On the evening of the twenty-second Rosie cut, coloured and pasted chains for her flat, showing Lucia who banged her rattle on the blanket in front of the fire, turning from her front on to her back, kicking her feet, pushing the rattle into her mouth, dribbling. Rosie kissed her cheeks, they were wet, pure.
She picked up her child and held her, seeing Jack in her movements, in her smile. She carried her to the window, looking out over the rooftops, hearing the jazz, the shouting and the laughter.
‘Where are you, Jack?’ she called, breath clouding the window.
A telegram came from Joe the next day, while she was serving customers and Mrs Eaves with mince-pies.
‘Have news stop Be with you 24th stop Joe’
Rosie put it down. Mrs Eaves read it, folded it, put it away, then asked Mrs Orsini to babysit for Lucia while Rosie came with her to the West End.
Rosie looked at her, then started to put sugar into bowls. They were too full. There would be news tomorrow. It would be Christmas Eve and there would be news. How could she wait that long? Why was it so hard to breathe?
‘Come on then, get your coat,’ Mrs Eaves said, picking up her handbag and her gloves, pulling them on, pushing up between her fingers. ‘Come on, get your coat, I said. Let’s get you through this evening anyway. And don’t worry. It can’t be bad news or he would have cabled you earlier.’
They walked out into the crisp air. There was jazz all around, coming up from cellars, mingling with calypso, with swing. Tomorrow there would be news and she couldn’t bear the minutes that had to pass until then.
Chestnuts cooked on braziers, sailors on leave entered the pubs, finding accommodation for their leave, amongst the homosexuals or the girls. Tarts lingering in doorways called, ‘Merry Christmas, Rosie. I’ll be in later for a coffee.’
Mrs Eaves took her arm and pointed to the Christmas tree outside the pub. There were streamers on it and candles which weren’t lit. ‘They’ll light them at midnight on Christmas Eve, as they always do, now the war’s over,’ the publican said, as he waved to them from the doorway.
But the war wasn’t over. Not the one Jack was fighting and the thousands of other young men.
They caught a bus, singing carols with the Salvation Army band as they waited. They went up to the West End, walked along Oxford Street, then, catching another bus, walked along Shaftesbury Avenue, looking at the billboards; and then they went back to Soho which they both preferred, which they both knew now. At least the evening was passing. There was only the long night to get through and some of the next day.
Joe didn’t come until six p.m. on Christmas Eve when the café had closed. Rosie stood at the door of her flat, watching as he climbed the stairs. There was a small decorated Christmas tree fixed into a log in his hand. He held it out. Rosie’s breath was shallow again.
‘For Lucia,’ he said. His mac was open, his belt dragged on the floor. It was dirty, muddy.
Rosie nodded, stood aside to let him enter. The tree smelt of pine. She placed it beneath the window. By the morning the room would smell too. It would be fresh and clean and pure but she couldn’t wait any longer. She turned.
‘Tell me,’ she said.
Joe smiled, shrugged. He looked tired, there were bags under his eyes, lines across his forehead. ‘Well, the good news is that he’s safe. He’s a POW. His father should have been notified. I don’t know why he didn’t let you know. Somethin
g went wrong somewhere. Anyway, Jack is one of the lucky ones. At least he’s been named as a prisoner by the Communists. Thousands of them have just been sucked in and lost.’
Rosie turned to the bright sky, to the stars, to the jazz which she could hear drifting up, along with the steam from the clubs and pubs. It was going to be a good Christmas, she thought, as the joy surged within her. He was safe, he was out of the fighting. He had not come back because he couldn’t, that was all.
‘So that’s why he hasn’t written,’ she murmured, putting her hand to her mouth.
Joe wrestled with his tie, pulling it loose, unbuttoning his collar. He looked around, saw the bottles on the table and asked, ‘Can I pour myself a drink?’
Rosie came across the room, poured the bourbon Mario had found for her and then one for herself. Joe could have the crown jewels for bringing that news.
‘I’ve no ice,’ she said, feeling the smile broaden on her face.
‘Drink up, Rosie. I said that was the good news.’ Joe swirled his drink round in the glass. It was amber in the soft light. The fire was hissing. She looked at the tree. She shouldn’t have smiled, that was it. Or made the streamers. If she hadn’t made the streamers it would have been good news only. No, she didn’t want to hear any more. She knew the important news, didn’t she?
‘Take your mac off, Joe,’ she said, sipping the bourbon. It was harsh in her throat. The glass was cold. She put it down on the small table by Grandpa’s chair, carried the mac across to the hook on the back of the door. It smelt of Joe, of America. It should smell of Korea. Why was it so hard to breathe? Why did her throat ache like this?
She walked back, sat in Grandpa’s chair.
‘Tell me now, then.’
She didn’t look at him, but at the Christmas tree, at the chains she had made, but which would have been better left unmade. Then she looked at the fire as he told her that he had discovered in Japan that Jack had fallen in love with a Japanese girl called Suko. That they had had an affair, that he was to marry her on his return. That he would never be coming back to her and that was why he had never written.
She looked at the glass of bourbon on the table, she pulled it to the edge, tipped it, breaking the vacuum as they had done at the Lake Club when they were so very, very young. There was no vacuum, but what did it matter?
She drank, then looked at the tree, at the fire, at the chains, at Joe who stood there, looking down at her.
He moved towards her, knelt, touched her knee, her arm. ‘I’m so sorry. So very sorry.’
‘At least he’s safe,’ she said but she didn’t want Joe there. She didn’t want anyone there. She wanted to push him away, he was making the room dark. He was taking what air there was. She couldn’t hear the hissing of the fire while he was there. She couldn’t see the chains. She couldn’t see the tree, but it was his tree. He had bought it for Jack’s daughter. He had been kind. And there was no pain yet. For God’s sake, the pain hadn’t come yet.
‘Come for Christmas,’ she said. ‘For lunch. You mustn’t be alone. No one should be alone.’
She stood now, keeping the glass in her hand. She walked to the door, took the coat off the hook and gave it to Joe, because the pain was beginning and it was hard to breathe. So hard to breathe.
He left, walking softly down the stairs.
She called, ‘There can be no mistake?’
He stopped and turned. ‘No, Rosie, no mistake. I can vouch for that.’ And what did it matter, he thought, as he moved down the stairs, what did it matter if he had lied. That man didn’t deserve her. She was far more suited to him.
The Christmas meal was held in Mario’s flat. Mrs Orsini drank sweet sherry and gave some to Rosie because the older woman had heard the news. They pulled homemade crackers and Joe gave her a gold watch and she smiled, felt its coolness against her skin, felt his fingers as he did up the catch. She held it up to the light.
‘Luke will be pleased,’ she murmured. ‘Thanks, Joe.’ She wished that Luke and Sandy were here.
She heard her voice from a distance, saw his smile. She gave Lucia Grandpa’s nailer’s penny, hung now on a silver chain. She pulled her cracker, ate turkey, ate Christmas pudding, found silver sixpences, fed Lucia, sat by the fire, listened to the King’s speech but was dying inside.
Joe came the next day and the next and the next, helping, talking, comforting. He played with Lucia who laughed and held her hands out to him. He took the baby to the park, then hoovered the flat for Rosie, typing out his copy, talking to her about her writing, about the Cougars, about the tennis courts at the lake, about Frank and Nancy, about a world which did not include Jack.
She worked in the café, she played with Lucia, she wrote a letter of thanks to Frank and Nancy and on New Year’s Eve she stayed up until midnight in the Orsinis’ flat and Joe clicked his glass against hers when the clock struck twelve.
‘Happy 1952,’ he said, and smiled and both their gold watches glinted in the light from the Orsinis’ lamps but Rosie wanted her own lamps, her own fire, and could bear all this no longer. She ran from them, taking Lucia, running up the stairs, laying her child down in her cot, stroking the hair that was Jack’s, kissing the smile that was his too.
Now the pain broke and she stood at the window, hearing the music. And she cried, great racking sobs, because he wouldn’t be in her life again, but how could he not be? He was part of her. His memories were hers. They had swung on the rope tied to the lamppost together. They had smelt the hops, they had stolen the cheeses. How could he do this?
Then she felt terrible rage, searing violent rage. He had shared her life, hated her, loved her, thrust himself into her, torn her, taken her in his confusion and now he had forgotten her and all their years together. Goddamn you, Jack. I hate you, I hate you.
She leaned against the window and hated him, loved him, wanted him, wanted Nancy, wanted the comfort of arms about her. And then Joe came. He held her, his arms were strong, and they had memories too. The lake was there as he soothed and stroked. The lake and the sun and the long sloping lawns where she had known peace and love. Where everything had been so much easier.
He carried her to the bed, he undressed her and undressed himself and she clung to him because he was part of Frank and Nancy’s world. He was kind, he was here, he wanted her. Jack didn’t. His hands had found someone else’s body; his mouth, someone else’s mouth.
But Joe was too fast for her, and it was as if they were at the barbecue by the lake again with his lips on her breasts, his hands on her body. She knew she only wanted comfort, nothing more than that, but what did it matter? What did any of it matter? She shut her mind to the face which loomed over her, to the body too close, too heavy. The body which wasn’t Jack’s and which was entering her, filling her, and now she held him, because passion of a sort was sweeping her too. Passion born of anger, of pain.
In the morning they walked Lucia in her pram across the frost-hardened grass, carving out patterns on the ground. Her hand was warm in his, her lips too, from the kiss he gave her, and it was good not to be alone. But Jack was still everywhere and her love for him was too, and her anger and her pain.
But as the weeks wore on and Joe was seconded to a Fleet Street paper it became easy to be with him. He laughed, he joked, he tossed Lucia in the air and took her back to the time she had shared with Frank and Nancy.
At night she forced herself not to think of Jack as Joe kissed her and held her, because Jack had held another, he loved another. The waiting was over. Their love was over.
But she dreamed of him. Each night she dreamed of him and woke up crying, wanting to clutch at the image, wanting to shake it, hurt it, as she was hurting.
In February the King died and Frank wrote asking for a feature from each of them. Separate ones please, he said, which Rosie thought was strange, because how else would they do it? She left Mario to take any messages and wrote about the black armbands the children were wearing, the adults were wearing, she was wear
ing. She wrote of the simple oak casket which was moved from Westminster Hall to St George’s Chapel. She wrote of the thousands of subjects who paid their last respects to this man who had brought them through war and peace.
The coffin left Westminster on a gun carriage. Big Ben rang out one beat a minute to mark the fifty-six years of the King’s life and many of the men and women who stood with Rosie wept. And Rosie wept too.
The Household Cavalry, in ceremonial dress, walked in slow time to Paddington station where the royal train was waiting. As the cortège passed Marlborough House, Queen Mary, the King’s mother, stood at the window and bowed her head and the crowd wept again.
Rosie wrote about the woman who turned to her while she was writing and asked who all the words were for. Rosie told her. ‘Tell them we loved him,’ the woman said.
Joe was covering the story at the Windsor end and when he arrived back that evening he hugged her, kissed her, his lips eager, his tongue searching her mouth. His nose was cold from the frost-full air, and so were his hands as he slipped them beneath her shirt. She laughed and kissed his neck and felt his hands become warm as they stroked her back, her breasts.
‘You had a good day then,’ she murmured, glad that someone was coming home to her each day, glad that she was becoming used to it, welcoming it, wanting Jack to know that she was not alone either.
Joe kissed her forehead, tucking her shirt back in, moving away, laughing.
‘I sure did, so let’s have your notes, I’ll put this together and then we have the evening left for better things.’ He laughed again and reached forward, rubbing his finger around her mouth.
Rosie smiled. It was good to be wanted at last. ‘No. I’ll write mine. You write yours. That’s what Frank asked for.’
She moved to Grandpa’s chair and began to write. Joe came towards her. ‘Oh, come on, Rosie. Let’s put it into one. It’ll make a better feature. Won’t take me a minute.’
But she refused because George VI had been her king, not his.
At the Break of Day Page 34
