Bye Bye Love

by Patricia Burns

  ‘Hello, handsome!’

  ‘Going my way?’

  Jonathan smiled vaguely but didn’t reply.

  And then there she was, pushing through the crowd, her face shining with delight.

  ‘Jonathan, Jonathan!’

  ‘Scarlett!’

  He raced forward to meet her, catching her in his arms as she flung herself at him, holding her tight, rocking her from side to side.

  ‘Oh, Scarlett, it’s so good to see you!’

  Oblivious to the whistles and catcalls, they kissed long and passionately.

  ‘You don’t know how long I’ve dreamed of doing that,’ he told her.

  ‘I do,’ she said. ‘’Cause I have as well.’

  Jonathan knew he was home at last. He was complete because he was with her.

  Arms round each other’s waists, they walked along the road together, a small island of pure happiness amongst the stream of factory workers anxious to get home. There was so much to catch up on, neither of them could talk fast enough. There was all the news they had told each other in letters to go over, and all the small things that hadn’t been written, and every so often they had to stop and gaze at each other and kiss and say, ‘I can’t believe you’re really here at last.’

  Jonathan couldn’t stop looking at her in wonder. She was still the same Scarlett, but she wasn’t the young girl in white ankle socks and a ponytail who he had first met nearly two years ago. She was a lovely young woman, and she was walking next to him. He was the proudest man on earth.

  They arrived at last outside the house where Scarlett’s flat was, the flat that was supposed to have been just for the meantime, until they got something better. Scarlett looked uncomfortable.

  ‘Look…er…I’ll just pop in first. You wait here,’ she said.

  Jonathan knew why. She couldn’t be sure whether her father would be there or not. It was a quarter to six and he should have left for work, but if he hadn’t it would be because he was either asleep or drunk or both and she was embarrassed about him.

  ‘OK,’ he agreed.

  At least Victor was working again—for now. It was one of a string of temporary jobs he’d had recently. None of them seemed to last more than a couple of weeks. Jonathan looked about him as he waited, and came to the same conclusion that he always did, that Scarlett should not be living in a street like this. It was really rough and neglected-looking. She deserved much better. One day, after he had done his national service, after he had established his career…

  Five minutes later, Victor came out of the front door. Jonathan was shocked to see how much he had changed since Christmas. He looked really haggard and unhealthy, and he had lost a lot more hair, but it was the way he held himself that was most telling. He was round-shouldered and shuffling, as if he was apologising for simply being there. When he saw Jonathan, he tried to straighten himself up and smile.

  ‘Ah…er…Jonathan. Yes. Nice to see you. Scarlett’s been looking forward to you coming home.’

  Peppermint-flavoured breath wafted over Jonathan. He held out his hand.

  ‘I’ve been looking forward to it too, Mr Smith.’

  ‘Good. Yes.’ Victor’s grasp was brief and weak. ‘National service next, is it? That’ll make a man of you.’

  ‘Yes, so they all say.’

  Victor’s eyes had already slid away from his.

  ‘Well, got to go. Mustn’t be late.’ He was just turning away when he suddenly appeared to change his mind and swung back to look Jonathan in the face again. ‘Look, you treat her right, d’you hear? She’s a good girl. Like her mother. Her mother was a wonderful woman.’

  Jonathan could hardly believe his ears. He was being warned off by this disaster of a man.

  ‘How about treating Scarlett right yourself?’ he flared. ‘How about giving her a proper home instead of this dump, and letting her go to school instead of having to slave in that factory just to pay the rent and keep you in booze and fags?’

  Victor shrank away from him, fear and loathing in his eyes.

  ‘All very well for you,’ he muttered. ‘Bloody Blane. He started all this—your father. It’s all his fault.’

  Guilt jolted through Jonathan. It had been his father’s fault that the Smiths had had to leave the Trafalgar. But that wasn’t the whole story.

  ‘It’s not his fault that you drink too much,’ he said.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Scarlett hurrying out of the front door. The words died in his mouth. She had never admitted to him that her father was a drunk, though they both knew it. It was the only forbidden territory between them.

  ‘You leave him alone!’ she cried.

  To his amazement, Jonathan realised that she was speaking to him.

  ‘Look, I—’ he began.

  But Scarlett wasn’t listening to him. She was taking her father by the arm and gently turning him away from the house.

  ‘Go on, Dad, don’t mind him. It’s time you left. You’ll be late if you’re not careful.’

  She watched him as he shambled off down the road. Then she rounded on Jonathan.

  ‘How dare you talk to my dad like that? How dare you?’

  ‘Because it’s true.’

  He was in too deep now to back out and, besides, he felt passionately about this.

  ‘He should be looking after you, not the other way round. It’s not fair. It’s like you’re the mum. You shouldn’t have to be checking up on him and making sure he’s all right and paying for things for him. He should be doing that for you. That’s what fathers are for.’

  Scarlett flushed with fury. Hands on hips, she faced him down.

  ‘Oh, and your father’s perfect, is he?’

  She had him on his weak spot now. It still made him feel sick to think of what had happened that last night the Smiths had worked at the Trafalgar.

  ‘No,’ he admitted, ‘of course not. But at least he works hard and keeps a decent roof over our heads. I don’t have to keep him.’

  ‘Well, it’s easy for him—’ Scarlett started.

  But Jonathan was on the defensive now, and it drove him on.

  ‘No, it isn’t. He started with nothing. He was an East End boy who started work when he was fourteen and he’s worked his way up to running the Trafalgar. That wasn’t easy at all. That was blooming hard work for years and years, and he still works all hours.’

  ‘Well, bully for him,’ Scarlett shouted. ‘Three cheers. Just don’t get at my dad, see? He’s all I’ve got, and if you don’t like him, you’d better just clear off!’

  ‘Oh, fine. If that’s what you want, then I will. I was just thinking of you, but that doesn’t seem to be good enough!’ Jonathan retorted.

  He grabbed his bike and cycled off down the road as fast as he could, his head pounding and his chest heaving with rage. He charged round the corner, narrowly missing a van, and raced on without noticing where he was going. He was halfway home before he even started to cool off. He slowed down a bit as doubts began to surface. Maybe he shouldn’t have gone off at the deep end like that. Maybe he should have kept his mouth shut. It was true that Victor was a rotten father. He still believed that. But telling him so to his face, and telling Scarlett what he thought, perhaps wasn’t very bright of him. But then Scarlett shouldn’t have said those things about his father…

  Jonathan finally came to a halt at the top of the cliffs. What had he gone and done? He groaned out loud and hit his head against the handlebars.

  ‘Idiot! Idiot!’

  He’d been looking forward to this great reunion with Scarlett for so long. How had it all gone so wrong? Just half an hour ago he’d been the happiest person alive. He couldn’t believe how he’d plunged from being on top of the world to down in the depths in such a short time. One thing was clear—something had to be done, at once. He couldn’t bear for her to be angry with him like this. He glanced at his watch. His mother was expecting him back at seven. She and his father were leaving the pub to the staff to run
for the evening and his aunts and uncles and cousins from London were coming down specially. They were to have a big family meal together to welcome him home. But making it up with Scarlett was more important than being on time for his parents. He cycled back to Scarlett’s road.

  A short time later he was holding the Smiths’ doorbell down with his thumb. He waited. Nobody came to the door. He tried it again. Still no reply. Was the bell working properly? Nothing else in this house seemed to. He stepped back and looked up at the small window in the gable that let light into the Smiths’ flat.

  ‘Scarlett!’ he yelled. ‘Scarlett! Come down and let me in!’

  He thought he saw a face at the window, but it was gone so quickly that he couldn’t be sure. He waited again, but still the front door remained shut. He pressed one of the other bells at random. A middle-aged woman with bright orange lipstick and her hair up in curlers answered the door. She looked him up and down with suspicious eyes.

  ‘Yes?’

  Jonathan put on his best smile. ‘I’m terribly sorry to disturb you, but could you let me come in? I’m trying to visit the Smiths on the top floor, but I don’t think their bell’s working.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know. We can’t let any old Tom, Dick or Harry in here, y’know.’

  Jonathan could feel desperation pounding inside him. If she didn’t move he was going to have to just push her out of the way.

  ‘I’m not any old Tom, Dick or Harry. I’m a friend of the Smiths. I’ve been coming here ever since they moved in.’

  The woman looked unconvinced. ‘I never saw you before in my life.’

  ‘Look, just let me in, will you? It’s important. It’s a matter of life or death!’

  ‘Oh, well, I suppose—’

  The woman took half a step back. Jonathan seized the chance, squeezed past her and ran up the main stairs and up again to the Smiths’ flat. He banged on their door.

  ‘Scarlett, it’s me! I’m sorry. I was wrong. Let me in, Scarlett!’

  From inside the flat he heard a muffled voice. ‘Go away. I don’t ever want to see you again.’

  It was terrible. It was like the end of the world.

  ‘Scarlett, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said all that.’

  A male voice floated up from the first floor landing. ‘Too much bleeding noise round here. Put a sock in it!’

  Jonathan ignored it. He slapped his hand on the door. ‘Scarlett, open up.’

  ‘Go away.’

  ‘You don’t mean that.’

  She couldn’t mean that. She mustn’t.

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Scarlett, come on. I’ve said I’m sorry. Don’t ruin everything. I love you.’

  There was silence on the other side of the door.

  ‘Scarlett?’

  Then he heard movement. The lock clicked and the door opened. She looked dreadful. Her face was blotchy and her eyes were red from crying. Jonathan stepped into the room.

  ‘Come here,’ he said, and took her in his arms.

  She clung to him fiercely, her head buried in his shoulder. He kissed her hair, felt its silkiness and the hard warmth of her skull beneath. It was all right. They were safe. He felt as if he’d just pulled back from the edge of a high cliff.

  ‘Say that again,’ Scarlett said.

  ‘Say what?’

  ‘You know.’

  ‘I love you.’

  ‘Really truly?’

  ‘Really truly.’

  Some of the tenseness went out of her. She looked up at him. Her eyes were still full of tears.

  ‘I love you too. So much. Sometimes I can’t bear it. But my dad—he’s all I’ve got, and I’m all he’s got. We’ve got to stick by each other. You must see that.’

  Jonathan thought of his own parents. They might seem distant, he might not get on too well with them, they might appear to put the pub and making money before him, but they were always there. He knew that he could rely on them. And, beyond them, there were the London relatives and the French relatives, a back-up family. It was hard to imagine having only one person in the world related to you, but that was how it was for Scarlett. Of course she had to stick by her father, however useless he was.

  ‘I do see,’ he said.

  She raised her face to his then, her sweet lips opening to his. Still wrapped around each other, they shuffled over to the one armchair and collapsed onto it. They kissed again and Jonathan ran his hands over her new womanly curves, covered only by a light skirt and blouse. It was a long time before he remembered that his family and a celebratory meal were waiting for him at home, and even then he only left reluctantly.

  ‘I’ll be back tomorrow,’ he promised.

  Cycling back to the Trafalgar, he didn’t care how much trouble he was in. Scarlett loved him, and that was all that mattered.

  It was the start of two magical weeks. Scarlett had taken her annual holiday to be with him, and they visited all their old haunts together, went to the cinema when it rained and spent a day in London looking at the tourist sights.

  ‘Whenever I see a picture of Tower Bridge or Buckingham Palace now, I’ll think of you,’ Scarlett said.

  The time went all too quickly. Before Jonathan could believe it was possible, it was their final evening together. With the last of his money, he took Scarlett out for a romantic candlelit meal. She was enchanted.

  ‘I’ve never been anywhere like this before,’ she breathed.

  All through the meal she held his hand and gazed at him over the table. Under the table their feet met and played. As they waited for dessert, she kicked off her shoes and ran her stockinged feet up and down his legs. Jonathan hardly noticed that the food was rubbish by Ortolan standards. It was Scarlett that he wanted to devour.

  They finally stumbled outside into the cool darkness and wrapped their arms round each other. Scarlett sighed and snuggled against him.

  ‘That was so, so wonderful—’ she sighed ‘—it was the best evening I’ve ever had.’

  Jonathan drew her into the shelter of a handy doorway and kissed her. Her mouth opened hungrily. He held her face in his hands, concentrating on her lips, her mouth, his senses reeling as her tongue slid over his. Intoxicated, he realised that she wanted him just as much as he wanted her.

  ‘Scarlett, Scarlett,’ he gasped as they came up for air. ‘You are so gorgeous. I love you so much.’

  ‘I love you too,’ she said. ‘I don’t want you to go away. I want you to stay here with me for ever.’

  ‘I don’t want to be anywhere else,’ he told her.

  But they both knew he had to go.

  Somehow, they walked back to her street, stopping frequently to kiss long and passionately. But, however much they drew out the journey, they arrived at last at her door. Inside the porch, Scarlett leaned against the wall and pulled him to her. Jonathan felt the soft sweet curves of her body pressed to his with only a few layers of clothing between them. She pulled at his shirt and ran her hands up the bare skin of his back.

  ‘Kiss me again,’ she begged.

  On fire, he did so, until both of them were breathless. Scarlett’s nails dug into his flesh.

  ‘You can come in,’ she whispered. ‘My dad won’t be back yet.’

  Jonathan groaned. His body was crying out for hers. But a last vestige of sense held him back. She was only sixteen. He was going away.

  ‘I mustn’t,’ he managed to say. ‘I want to, but I mustn’t. I love you too much.’

  ‘Always and for ever?’ she asked, her voice cracking.

  ‘Always and for ever,’ he agreed.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  1956

  ‘BLIMEY, bit hot out here, ain’t it?’

  A squaddie who Jonathan hadn’t met before came and leaned beside him on the railings of the troop ship.

  ‘Better than being down below. It’s like a bloody furnace down there. At least there’s some breeze up here,’ Jonathan said.

  ‘Yeah. Nothing like a bit of fresh air. Smoke?�
�� The man offered an open pack of cigarettes.

  ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘Blimey, what’s wrong with you?’

  Jonathan had often got this reaction from the others.

  ‘Bloke I worked for told me it spoils the taste buds,’ he explained.

  Monsieur Bonnard and the Ortolan seemed a very long way away now, but his influence was still strong enough to stop him from smoking.

  His companion shrugged. ‘Cheap round,’ he said, and lit up. He chucked the dead match overboard into the green water of the Suez Canal. ‘Funny to think that back home it’s winter, ain’t it?’

  ‘Yeah. They’re all suffering rain and snow and here we are in sunny Egypt,’ Jonathan said.

  He wondered how Scarlett was coping with the leaks and the damp in that crummy flat of hers. When they got to Aden, he would be able to post the letters that he had been writing to her.

  ‘Rum place this, ain’t it?’ his companion said. ‘All them camels and palm trees and that. Like the pictures they used to show you at Sunday school.’

  The two of them gazed idly at the slowly passing scenery. Flat-topped houses with minute windows huddled in groups, as if propping each other up. Goats and hens foraged in refuse heaps. A man in a long white shirt was riding a tiny donkey laden with bundles of sticks. Two women covered from head to foot in black were carrying pots on their heads.

  ‘Sure is,’ Jonathan agreed. ‘Really foreign.’

  ‘At least the bleeding ship’s not rocking about no more. God, I hate ships.’

  ‘I used to think I liked them, until I got on board this one,’ Jonathan said.

  He had felt pleasantly superior to the men who were chucking up from the moment they’d got on board. He’d never been seasick, not even on the cross Channel ferries in winter. But being battened down below on a troop ship crossing the Bay of Biscay was another thing altogether, especially during a storm. The smell alone had been enough to turn his normally tough stomach, reducing him to a groaning wreck.

  ‘We got the Indian Ocean to do yet,’ his companion said gloomily.