by Juliet West
For Steve, with love
Contents
PART ONE
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
PART TWO
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
PART THREE
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
Author’s Note
Acknowledgements
Reading Group Guide
PART ONE
1
July 1935
Even as he queued to board the coach at Victoria, Tom thought about turning back. He would tell his mother that he was ill, a sudden stomach upset, and he’d be better off spending the week at home on his own. She’d cluck and fuss but she might just let him go.
A pigeon eyed him from its perch above a newspaper stand, its head cocked, the stump of one foot hovering over a sign for Pears Soap: PURITY ITSELF.
A week at home on his own. Imagine. He could invite Jillie round; a little more comfortable than their usual spot by the back doors of the Gaumont. Tom fought down a sudden stab of desire. He mustn’t think those thoughts – he was with his mum and dad, for pity’s sake. Anyway, did he really want Jillie at his place, picking up the family photographs, drinking tea from his mum’s best cups? Jillie was getting a bit too attached as it was.
The coach doors opened and a cheer rippled through the queue. In a neighbouring bay, a bus moved off to the shouts of ‘Stand clear!’ Petrol fumes billowed into the still morning air.
‘Should leave on time after all,’ said Tom’s dad, looking up at the clock. The minute hand jerked forward. Five to nine.
His mum turned and flapped a hurry-up hand. ‘Come on, Tom,’ she said. ‘Chop chop.’
This was the moment, thought Tom. He would clutch his guts, retch a few times – it was the weather for stomach upsets, after all – and groan something about a ham roll bought from a milk bar on the Strand. Could he get away with it? He’d never been much good at lying. And now the thought of putting on such a performance began to make him feel genuinely queasy. Everyone would stare, and his mother would fret, and in all likelihood she’d miss the coach too, escort him back to Lewisham and dose him with Milk of Magnesia. He’d end up spoiling the holiday for her and that would be plain cruel because she’d been looking forward to Bognor ever since they’d paid their half-crown deposits before Christmas.
‘Just a bit tired,’ said Tom, stepping forward to close the gap between them. ‘I woke up at five.’
‘It’ll be the excitement,’ she said. ‘You were always the same before Scout camps.’
They had reached the coach door. Bea grabbed the handle and hauled herself up onto the boarding step. ‘There are still a few seats at the front, Harold. You have got the sandwiches, haven’t you?’ Tom’s dad raised his eyebrows and lifted his old khaki tote bag.
Tom climbed the steps and inhaled the smell of motor oil and disinfectant. Too late now – he was here and there was no chance of escape. Beggsy and Jim called to him from the very back of the coach, loud and larky. Tom gave a short wave but took a seat across the aisle from his mum and dad: Beggsy was a pain in the arse at the best of times.
As the coach moved off into the sunshine of Belgravia, Tom’s mood began to shift. The seat beside him was empty; he wouldn’t have to make small talk or listen to some droning bore from HQ. The whiff of disinfectant gave way to something different, to peeled oranges and chip paper, towels made stiff by saltwater and sun. Yes, the coach smelt different now. It smelt of promise.
They crawled through Clapham and Wandsworth until finally the roads cleared, and the coach picked up speed as it motored into the open countryside. Skylarks rose above fields and the verges shimmered with bees and butterflies.
At Dorking, Mrs Winters began to stalk down the aisle handing out information leaflets about the camp. And then – in case they couldn’t read, Tom supposed – she stood swaying at the front, reciting every line of the leaflet. Most of the coach passengers were travelling in civvies, but Mrs Winters wore her uniform, the skirt a little too tight, coarse black hairs poking through her tan stockings.
‘There will be four good meals daily,’ she called out. ‘The camp is complete with a shop, shower baths and a mess marquee.’
Tom’s mum turned wide-eyed towards his father. ‘A marquee, Harold!’ Harold blinked his heavy lids, gave the faintest nod in response. Bea fanned herself with the leaflet as Mrs Winters continued.
‘Cricket matches, rounders, quoits and badminton,’ she said, grabbing on to the back of a seat as the coach swerved around a sharp bend. ‘Punchballs for those who want to hit something, and boxing matches when two people want to hit each other.’
This caused a great laugh, and Beggsy at the back cheered. Tom’s insides crumpled at the mention of boxing matches and punchballs. Boxing, fencing, ju-jitsu – all manner of sports would be laid on, and he wasn’t interested in any of them. He didn’t want to punch anyone, or prance around with a daft sword. The enforced exercise was just the start, though: there’d be meetings too – speeches, lectures, patriotic songs. Damn it. He should have trusted his instincts, should have bailed out while there was still time.
2
If Charles did that thing with his jaw once more she would have to leave the table. It was bad enough that her mother had invited him to stay yet again, but at least generally they got up late and she didn’t have to breakfast with them. Now here they both were, strangely energetic for this time of day – zestful, even – and every time he chewed there was a vile sound, like small bones cracking.
Her mother dropped a fig stalk carelessly onto the tablecloth, took a sip of tea and turned to Hazel. ‘I’ve decided to go up to town,’ she said. ‘Charles needs to get back for . . . urgent business. And I’d rather like a change of scene. You won’t mind, will you, darling?’
Hazel swallowed her mouthful too quickly and the dry toast scraped her throat. ‘When are you leaving?’
‘We thought midday,’ said Francine.
‘But what about this afternoon?’
Francine narrowed her eyes and raised a questioning shoulder. Her jade silk dressing gown clung to her skin, sinking into the dip of her collarbone. ‘This afternoon?’
‘The shopping trip. You were going to buy me some more summer things. Last year’s dresses are –’ she paused, feeling her cheeks colour – ‘you know.’
‘Oh, darling.’ Francine laughed and gestured towards Hazel’s bust. ‘Don’t be bashful, of course I know. It’s just rather hard for me to accept. My little girl growing into a woman.’ She turned to Charles and put a hand on his arm. ‘Honestly, Charles, if you’d seen her this time last year, she was flat as a board. Then whoosh came the monthlies, and now look!’
Hazel could only stare down at the toast crumbs on her plate. At Rosewood House, amongst the other girls, conversations about monthlies were had in whispers, if they were had at all. What was wrong with her mother, broadcasting the subject at breakfast? Oh God, he was probably looking at her, just as Mother had suggested. Hazel hunched her shoulders and curled her spine, hoping that the evidence would somehow disappear.
‘She’s going to be a great beauty,’ said Charles,
‘just like her mother.’
The mantel clock struck nine. Francine gave a high laugh that clashed with the chime. A major seventh, thought Hazel. Horrible.
‘Flatterer,’ said Francine. She traced a painted fingernail down Charles’s forearm. ‘Don’t sulk, Hazel, for heaven’s sake. How about this for an idea? I’ll buy you some dresses in Selfridges while I’m in town. There’ll be more choice.’
‘But I wanted to choose.’
‘Plenty of time for shopping once I’m home. I won’t be gone long. Just a few days. Perhaps a week. And in the meantime Mrs Waite might be able to let out some seams.’
Francine put another fig into her mouth and began to chew. The seeds cracked like miniature bullets firing, and Hazel knew that it was pointless arguing, pointless feeling surprised. This was how things were now. Mother wanted Charles more than she wanted her.
The horizon was starting to fuzz and shimmer and that meant the day would be hot and the sea would be warm enough for bathing. Later she would change into her turquoise costume (that, at least, still fitted), walk down to the end of the garden and climb over the wall onto the beach. If the sea stayed calm she might even swim out towards Pagham.
She opened her bedroom window and leaned forward on the sill, listening to the layers of sound – the outgoing tide pulling away from the shore, the scream of a young gull, the blind dog from next door snuffling in the box hedge. And then another layer, growing louder until it eclipsed all other sounds; heavier, mechanical: the hazy drone of aircraft. The planes appeared in the sky to the west, flying over the sea in formation.
Hawker Furies.
Hazel watched them rise and fall, their polished cowlings glinting. The Hawkers flew out every morning now. Sometimes Hazel cycled past the base at Tangmere, and from the farm track you could see the planes, shadowy in their hangars, the pilots and the airmen scurrying around them, their laughter echoing across flat clay fields.
‘Ha-zel!’
Francine’s voice called up from the bottom of the stairs. Hazel hadn’t spoken to her mother or Charles since breakfast, as a punishment for the London trip. Most likely the punishment had gone unnoticed. Charles had been in the hall, making calls on the telephone in a hushed voice, and Francine had been in her room, banging wardrobe doors. What on earth would she be packing? Francine didn’t dress like normal mothers; neat summer suits with matching shoes and handbags. She threw things together higgledy-piggledy: peppermint trousers with a striped orange blouse, which might have been passable if she didn’t then tie a floral cambric scarf around her neck. Yet she was forever receiving compliments on her style – ‘Bravo, Francine, quite the Bohemian,’ her London friends would say, or ‘So wonderfully daring, Francine.’ But London was one thing. In Aldwick Bay, her clothes caused nothing but backwards glances, amused stares.
‘Darling, our car is here!’
Hazel slunk from the bedroom and peered over the banister into the hall below. Francine was standing at the wide-open front door, a cigarette burning in the black onyx holder. She was wearing the white sundress with a plunging neckline, pink glass beads and an orange belt that matched the marmalade shade of her hair. Charles leaned against the timber pillar of the porch, his face shaded by the brim of his panama.
‘Darling, I won’t leave without a kiss. Now stop sulking and come here.’
Hazel walked barefoot down the staircase, kissed her mother on the cheek and muttered, ‘Bon voyage.’ Francine smiled and stroked the top of her daughter’s head.
‘I’ll try to call but Charles’s telephone can be horribly temperamental. Your father will ring, I expect.’
‘There’s no need, Mother.’ She hung her head and pressed one finger onto the spoke of an umbrella in the stand.
‘Oh, do liven up, Hazel. Aren’t you pleased that I trust you enough to leave you? When I was sixteen, I was desperate for a little freedom.’ She drew on her cigarette and her green eyes seemed to darken and mist, like pieces of frosted sea glass. ‘You and Bronwen go out and have some fun. Here –’ she reached for her purse and took out two ten-shilling notes – ‘walk into Bognor one afternoon. Take tea at the Royal Norfolk. Or go to the cinema, why don’t you? I’ll be back in a week or so.’ She lowered her voice so that it would not be heard beyond the hallway. ‘And be nice to Mrs Waite.’
From the kitchen came the sound of a wooden spoon battering the side of a mixing bowl. Mrs Waite would be making some kind of sauce for tonight’s dinner. Hazel took the money and thanked her mother. She gave a half-hearted wave as the taxi swept out of the cul-de-sac and onto Tamarisk Drive.
Might as well go to Sweaty Arnold’s for a packet of Pall Malls, thought Hazel. She was getting rather good at inhaling. Last time she barely coughed.
Hazel waited until after lunch when Mrs Waite was in her room, resting. She shut the front door quietly and walked down the path, pushing her hair behind her ears and trying to smooth it flat against her head. Hopeless. Muggy days like this always turned it frizzy.
The estate was quiet but for the sound of a hand-mower wheezing up and down a neighbouring lawn. She reached the flint piers which marked the boundary of the estate, where the footway changed from grass-verged pavestones to the rough, gravelled tracks of Aldwick village. The little row of shops was just across the road, shaded by a line of lime trees. Coastguards’ Parade, the shops were called, though Hazel had never seen any evidence of any coastguards; there was only the skinny butcher and the bespectacled grocer and Mr Arnold, the newsagent, whose round face shone perpetually with tiny beads of perspiration.
The day was getting hotter. Cats lazed under shady bushes and Hazel wished she had worn a hat. A small black fly landed on her bare leg, just below the hem of her dress. She bent to brush it away and as she straightened up, she sensed a vibration in the ground, a light thumping. She looked up – Furies again? – but the skies were clear. Drumming, was it? Yes, drumbeats, growing nearer. Then the sound of a bugle piercing the hot air, boots hitting the ground. Marching.
Hazel stepped back from the kerb and retreated a few yards to the entrance of the estate. She leaned against one of the piers, and the knapped flint edges pressed into her shoulder blades. A column of drummers came into view. She had been expecting a British Legion parade, ex-soldiers wearing blazers and medals, a procession of eye patches and missing limbs. But these marchers were healthy men, three abreast, side drums low on their hips. Their uniforms were black, and oversize buckles shone on their belts – great square hunks of steel that flashed in the sun.
Behind the first column were rows of younger men, their marching less precise. Finally, the women and girls, scores of them, each wearing a black beret, shirt and tie, with a grey skirt close-fitted around the hips. One of the girls turned towards Hazel – a young woman, eighteen perhaps. She looked beautiful, Hazel thought, even before she smiled. Hazel smiled back, and the girl reached into a black leather pouch that hung from her belt. She took out a wad of papers, marched over and gave Hazel a handbill. Hazel blushed and mumbled a thank-you as the girl turned and strode back to the column, keeping step all the time with the beat of the drums.
Blackshirts. Hazel had seen them before, small bands dotted around Bognor selling their weekly newspaper, a penny per copy. She’d asked her mother about them. ‘Political cranks,’ Francine had said, hurrying past with a look of distaste. ‘Don’t flatter them with your attention.’
How strange to see them here, en masse, marching past Coastguards’ Parade towards the beach. The butcher, Mr Gibbons, came out of his shop. He lifted his spectacles and smiled at the sight, but the grocer stayed inside, and through the plate-glass window it looked as though he was shaking his head.
Crank? What did that mean? It was the same as eccentric, wasn’t it, a word for people who’d gone a little cuckoo and couldn’t get on in society? There didn’t seem to be anything cuckoo about these people, thought Hazel. They were full of purpose, so well turned out, so . . . organized.
When the
parade had passed, she looked down at the handbill. BRITISH UNION OF FASCISTS. MOSLEY SPEAKS! THEATRE ROYAL, BOGNOR REGIS, 7 P.M. She folded the paper into a small square and slid it into the pocket of her dress.
She could follow the marchers down to the beach but it would be better, she decided, to go home and spy on them from the garden. If she stood on the table in the summer house, there would be a prime view over the garden wall, straight out to the bay.
Cigarettes. She crossed the road and pushed open the door into the newsagent’s, trying not to breathe in too deeply. The smell was more pungent than ever.
Mr Arnold got up from his stool and wiped a hand on his trousers. ‘How do, miss?’
‘A packet of Pall Malls for my mother, please,’ said Hazel, ‘and a quarter of mint imperials.’
He sniffed and turned to take the cigarettes from the display behind the counter.
‘Did you see the march?’ asked Hazel.
‘Cudn’t miss it.’
‘I wonder what they’re doing here?’
‘They’ve set up a holiday camp by all accounts, over at Pryor’s Farm. On the fields behind your estate, miss.’ He opened the jar of mint imperials and rattled the sweets into the bowl on the scales. ‘Down from London, I s’pose.’ He peered at the dial on the scales. ‘Dozzle over?’ Hazel nodded and he tipped the mints into a white paper bag. ‘Ol’ Gibbons is going to their meeting in Bognor tonight, but you shan’t catch me there. I leave politics to them what’s paid to know better.’
Hazel smiled and gave him a ten-shilling note. He sighed, rang open the cash drawer and scraped about for the change.
Walking back, she sucked on a mint imperial and thought about the blackshirt meeting. Perhaps they would march into Bognor, drums beating all the way. It was something different, it might be fun to watch, and that’s what her mother wanted, wasn’t it, for her to have a little fun, a little adventure? She’d have to persuade Bronny, of course, but that shouldn’t be too difficult. They could go to the cinema afterwards. It Happened One Night was showing at the Odeon. Clark Gable was Bronny’s favourite.
