The Faithful

by Juliet West

  ‘I bought some teething powders.’

  ‘Nanny Felix was all for a tot of brandy but your father wouldn’t have it. He was ever so good with you, pacing up and down when Nanny needed a rest. I just didn’t seem to have the knack. Does Lucia help out, darling, when the nights are bad?’

  ‘She’s marvellous.’

  ‘It’s very good of her, I must say. And you plan to stay with Lucia?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Well, now we’re neighbours I shall be able to give you a little break every so often. Yes, I shall, shan’t I?’ She addressed this last sentence to Jasmin, speaking in a girlish baby voice and planting a kiss on her cheek.

  Hazel began to cough. She took a packet of cigarettes from her bag.

  Francine raised her eyebrows. ‘A smoker, now?’ She laughed and shrugged her shoulders. ‘Perhaps you wouldn’t mind sharing? I left my cigarette case at Charles’s.’ She stood up and settled Jasmin back into the pram, tucking the crocheted blanket around her. Jasmin grabbed at the blanket, poking her fingers through the holes. ‘What a sight we shall be, smoking together on a park bench like navvies!’

  Hazel lit her mother’s cigarette, then her own. Smoke mingled with the icy air, sharp at the back of her throat. Charles was still around, then. She would not have her mother turning up at the flat, calling in whenever she felt like it. Her mother and Charles. There would need to be some kind of arrangement. A regular date. Francine wouldn’t like that, she’d say it was a bore, she liked spontaneity, not timetables. But that was too bad. If she wanted to make amends it would have to be on Hazel’s terms.

  Jasmin began to cry again, arching her back and kicking off the blanket. She would be getting hungry. Hazel looked in the bottom of the pram for the rusks and the cup of milk, but the bag wasn’t there. She must have left it on the kitchen table in her hurry to leave the flat.

  Francine took a drag from her cigarette and then balanced it on the arm of the bench. ‘I almost forgot,’ she said, blowing the smoke in a thin plume as she reached into her handbag. She pulled out a tarnished silver rattle and jangled it. ‘Sorry it’s not polished,’ she said. ‘I had to let Mrs Waite go, you see. I searched everywhere for the silver cloth but . . . anyway, I thought baby might like this.’ Francine leaned across to the pram, shaking the rattle, and Jasmin quietened at the sound of the tiny bell. ‘I finally unpacked the cases from your grandparents. I believe this belonged to my mother, and then to me. An heirloom!’

  Jasmin reached out and drew the rattle towards her mouth, grazing it with her two bottom teeth. Francine smiled and let go of the handle.

  ‘The tarnish,’ said Hazel. Jasmin was gnawing at the rattle as if it were an apple. ‘It might make her ill.’

  ‘Oh, you mustn’t fuss about that. You’ll turn into one of those over-protective mothers. I gather that’s all the rage, nowadays. Too much attention is not good for children.’

  Hazel dropped the cigarette and stepped on the end with the sole of her boot. So her mother was an expert on babies now? She took a deep breath and stifled a cough. ‘It’s time I left,’ she said. ‘Jasmin will want her lunch soon.’

  ‘You’re walking back to Kensington?’

  Hazel nodded.

  ‘I’d go with you but I promised to meet Charles at Pagani’s. Unless you’d like to join us, of course, but I’m not sure –’ she waved in the direction of the pram – ‘whether they welcome babies.’

  There was a pause, a chill between them. A black Labrador bounded up to the willow and began to bark at a squirrel.

  ‘And what about you?’ asked Hazel. ‘What’s your view on babies now?’

  ‘Please, Hazel. Don’t use that abrasive tone. We had enough of that—’

  ‘I’m curious, that’s all. Why the change of heart?’

  ‘Darling, I just want us to be friends. It’s not been easy for me. Have you stopped to think how I’ve felt, not knowing where you were or what you were doing? Running away like that with Jasmin. The Shaw women were frantic, and as for the poor couple, I’m told it was a terrible shock for them.’

  ‘Doubtless they’ve found another baby to adopt. An unwanted baby.’ Hazel kicked the brake off the pram wheels. It had been a mistake to come. She had been weak and stupid to answer her mother’s letter.

  ‘Darling, please wait.’ Francine rushed towards her and held on to the pram hood so that Hazel had no choice but to stop. ‘I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you. You did what you had to do, I understand that. At least, I’m trying to understand, I really am. And now I’ve seen Jasmin again, well, she really is marvellous. I’m proud of you, Hazel, truly. I’m proud of you and I’m proud of my . . . my granddaughter.’

  Hazel tried to speak, but a sob rose in her chest with such force that she could not hold it down. Francine embraced her, and Hazel cried into her mother’s shoulder until the fur stole was spiked wet with tears.

  Jasmin shook the rattle. The wind had dropped away, and the silver bell chimed in the wintry air.

  ‘It’s definitely true,’ said Lucia. ‘He married her in Germany. In Herr Goebbels’s drawing room. And it was weeks ago. Just after the Cable Street fiasco.’

  Lucia flopped onto the sofa, disconsolate. They had all heard the whispers, but Hazel still wasn’t sure whether to believe the story. It didn’t matter to her in any case. Lucia was the one who had harboured dreams of being seduced by Sir Oswald and becoming the next Lady Mosley. He was an incorrigible philanderer, everyone knew that, so it wasn’t too far-fetched to imagine his eye might fall on a loyal blackshirt girl who was devoting her life to the cause.

  ‘Of course Diana Guinness is terrifically rich, and well connected in Germany,’ Lucia sighed.

  ‘Not forgetting her intelligence and dazzling beauty,’ said Hazel.

  Lucia turned her head sharply. ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning nothing.’ Hazel tried to laugh but she could see that Lucia had somehow taken offence.

  ‘Philip is forever telling me how beautiful I am,’ she said, tipping up her chin with her forefinger. ‘And I like to think I have a reasonable intellect.’

  Hazel had not yet met Lucia’s lover. Philip was a married economist who was an adviser at HQ; he had taken Lucia to nightclubs in Soho which Sir Oswald frequented, and Lucia freely admitted that she spent those evenings trying to catch O.M.’s eye. Once, he had asked her to dance, and pronounced her a ‘handsome filly’ as she rejoined Philip at his table.

  ‘Of course you are . . . and you do. You’re as good as Diana Guinness any day. But if it’s true, why are they being so secretive?’

  ‘He doesn’t want the press finding out. Diana is very private. If I married Sir Oswald I’d be yelling from the rooftops. Just imagine.’ She pushed off her heels and lay back on the sofa. There was still an edge to her voice: it would probably last for the whole evening. ‘Get me a cup of tea, would you? I’m shattered. Any thoughts about dinner?’

  ‘You’re in tonight?’

  She nodded. ‘Philip’s back in Surrey with the family.’

  ‘There’s ham. I could make omelettes, once Jasmin is in bed.’

  ‘Omelettes, yes.’ Lucia turned to look at the baby. She was sitting on the rug in front of the fire, playing with the rattle. ‘That’s a very tinkly toy,’ she said. ‘It’s going right through me. I barely slept last night.’

  ‘It was a gift from my mother.’

  ‘You’ve seen your mother?’ Lucia propped herself on an elbow and frowned. ‘You didn’t say.’

  ‘I wasn’t sure I would be seeing her. I dithered until the last minute.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘We had a walk around Hyde Park. It was bearable. Civilized.’

  Lucia was silent for a moment, then her voice softened. ‘Please don’t tell me you’re going back to Sussex? I couldn’t possibly live here without you.’

  ‘Of course not. Mother has left Sussex, in any case. She’s back in London. Earls Court.’

  ‘So close?’
Lucia rolled her eyes. ‘She won’t interfere, will she, Hazel? I’m surprised you’ll have anything to do with her. You said she was demented.’

  Had she said that? Yes, she remembered telling Lucia about the scene in the clinic, Francine’s refusal to accept that Hazel could possibly want to keep her baby. ‘I think she’s calmed down. Got used to the idea, I suppose.’

  ‘So long as you’re not planning to desert me.’ Lucia twisted the ring on her finger. ‘We’re a good team, aren’t we? I couldn’t manage without you.’

  ‘I’m not deserting you, Lucia. Where on earth would I go?’

  ‘Quite.’ She shivered and rubbed her eyes, child-like, with the heels of her hands. ‘Now be an angel and turn up the fire.’

  The kettle took an age to boil. When Hazel carried the tea tray through to the sitting room, Jasmin had crawled closer to the electric fire. Her cheeks were flaming pink and her arm was stretched out towards the metal casing, almost touching the bars. Hazel dropped the tray onto the table, the cups skidding off their saucers as she grabbed Jasmin clear.

  Lucia’s eyes flew open and she put her hand to her forehead.

  ‘Goodness,’ she said. ‘I must have dozed off.’

  The Saturday post brought a third letter from Tom. The previous two had been short and factual; friendly but not familiar. He made life in Spain sound like an enjoyable adventure, describing the everyday things – the food and the friendships, the strange birds and the scenery. He was still at a training camp, learning drills and tactics. Hazel had responded with similarly light-hearted replies, trying to make something interesting of her life so that he would not be bored. She told him amusing stories about uptight Mr Boyne the office manager, whose right ear turned scarlet when his in-tray filled up, or the girls at work, pretending she had been out to the cinema or to dances with them. Some nights she dreamed she was that unfettered person, and when she woke to Jasmin’s crying, the familiar dread dropped like a stone in her stomach.

  Hazel stood in the cold hallway holding Tom’s letter, aware of its weight in her hand. It felt different from the other letters. Heavier. Carefully she opened the envelope. There were three sheets of notepaper; his handwriting wasn’t neat and stilted as it had been before, but slanted across the page in hurried rows. She drifted into the kitchen and began to read.

  Dearest Hazel,

  Your letter was wonderful but it made me melancholy. Perhaps I will regret replying in haste, but you would be surprised how little there is to do out here, and that is why I have time to think and write. Truth is, I think about you more than I should, Hazel. I picture you at the cinema with your friends, or at the Saturday dance, and I’m ashamed to say I feel envious to imagine those men lucky enough to be close to you, to hold you in their arms as I once did. I know I shouldn’t press you, Hazel, but I cannot rest until I know your thoughts. This politeness is all well and good but how do you feel about our – what to call it – our courtship? Were we too young, too rash, is that why you chose not to keep in touch? Yet you wrote again after a year, but when we met at St Paul’s you seemed ill at ease. Tell me, did I do something wrong? If it’s some silly thing, easily mended, please, please let me know and I can put it right.

  Maybe this life in Spain is getting to me. I told you about Jacob, didn’t I? Chap loves to spout poetry, he must be turning me into a romantic. Not that I need much prompting when it comes to you, Hazel. I only have to think of that first time I saw you – half saw you. But even in the dark I knew you were knockout. It still amazes me, how brave you were to talk to the stranger crouching on your garden wall in his pyjamas. I must have looked a prize idiot, but what a sight for sore eyes you were, standing there, smoking your cigarette! I’m getting back into the habit over here, by the way. Not that there’s much tobacco about, but what we do have we roll into twig-thin smokes and we count ourselves lucky.

  More than anything, I want to see you. I’d come home to London if I could but it’s impossible. Deserters are liable to be shot and in any case, I’ve no intention of deserting. Things might be quiet right now but battle plans are being drawn up. There’s talk of something big. We hear such stories about the fascists, pure evil. I believe I should be here, I believe it with every bone in my body . . . but now I’m on to politics and that won’t do. It’s an odd thing between us, isn’t it? But we mustn’t let politics divide us. I want to know what’s in your heart.

  I suppose I should tear up this letter and throw it onto the fire that I’m huddled around. It’s getting very cold here now. This morning we woke to a fall of snow.

  No, I won’t tear anything up. I’ll seal this and give it to the clerk. Because really I have nothing to lose. I love you.

  Tom

  She dragged her eyes from the last page and stared beyond the kitchen window. The rowan tree was rimed with frost, berries red as blood. Tom’s words sang in her mind, lifted her heart, and yet her heart could not stay lifted: there was always the answering plunge of despair. How much could she tell him, truly? She wanted to be honest, but to be too honest was to risk losing him completely.

  ‘Is there tea?’

  She hadn’t heard Lucia come in. Clumsily she folded the letter and shoved it in her skirt pocket. ‘I’ll make a fresh pot.’

  ‘Heavens, that must have been exciting post. You’re bright red!’

  ‘What? Oh, nothing that interesting.’

  Lucia sidled up, took her hand from her dressing-gown pocket and tugged one of Hazel’s curls, teasing it straight. ‘Come on, tell all.’

  For once Hazel was happy to hear Jasmin’s yell. She jumped up from the chair. ‘Honestly, it’s just a letter from a cousin. Boring. Sorry, you’ll have to make your own tea.’

  25

  Bea preferred not to go into town when the weather was so wicked, but she couldn’t let her branch down. The Christmas bazaar depended on the goodwill of women from the districts, and Lewisham had been tasked with providing items for the knitwear stall. She had been knitting circle-and-flash tea cosies for weeks.

  The rain was icy, and the fierce wind meant there was absolutely no point battling with an umbrella. By the time she arrived at Great Smith Street her coat was soaked through and the damp had seeped into her shoes and stockings.

  A haughty girl brandishing a clipboard let her in – Bea recognized her from the summer camp and from HQ meetings where she sometimes gave an address. She stared at Bea as if to say, Look what the cat dragged in, then took her name and directed her to the cloakroom where she could hang her coat. ‘Try not to drip on the parquet,’ said the girl. ‘We wouldn’t want the wood to warp.’

  The knitwear stall turned out to be over-staffed, and Bea was asked to help in the kitchen because the leader in charge of refreshments had been taken ill. Bea would have preferred to stay in the main hall, amongst the hubbub of the stalls, but there it was, she couldn’t very well refuse.

  The haughty girl introduced her to the other kitchen helpers. ‘Eleanor, Alexia – this is Mrs Smart. Oh, let’s not be so formal. What’s your Christian name, Mrs Smart?’

  Bea bridled, but tried not to show it; she could be modern, if pushed. ‘Beatrice. Bea.’

  ‘Bea. You’ll be handy with a dishcloth, won’t you, Bea?’

  ‘I’ve had plenty of experience if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘Wonderful. Here’s Hazel now.’ A blonde girl came out of a storeroom carrying a large pat of butter. ‘Hazel, this is Bea.’

  Bea looked at the young girls – not one of them more than twenty years old. They seemed the types who’d never washed up a breakfast bowl in their lives, let alone laid on teas for a Christmas bazaar. It was just as well she’d been drafted in.

  The clipboard girl – Lucia, she was called – strode off and the one with the butter went back into the storeroom to find a spare apron. Bea realized she’d forgotten their names already. Lucia had thrown her with the Christian-name carry-on.

  ‘You’ll have to remind me of your name again,’ she said
to the blonde girl as she came out of the storeroom.

  ‘Hazel,’ she said, handing over the apron.

  Hazel. It struck her, then. Hazel wasn’t a common name. Bea tied the apron strings and tried not to stare.

  By six the bazaar was closed and they had almost finished clearing away. Bea was terribly tired but her heart felt glad as she swept the kitchen floor. Hazel was the girl from Tom’s unsent letter, she was sure of it. She was a pretty young thing, and although her face was pale she had a lovely smile. Best of all she’d turned out to be a good little worker, unlike Alexia who’d twice pleaded stomach pains and had disappeared into the cloakrooms just as the queue was at its peak. Yes, this must be the Hazel that Tom had fallen for. The most beautiful girl in Aldwick. Bea found it funny to think she’d had her down as a communist, a communist who’d lured Tom away from the blackshirts, when all along she was one of the party faithful. A member of the women’s drum corps, no less.

  They’d had a very nice chat at the sink earlier on. Bea washed, Hazel dried. It was an easy way to talk – eyes on the job, a steady rhythm between them as they ploughed through the piles of dull green crockery.

  ‘You’re from London?’ asked Bea.

  ‘Originally, but we moved to Sussex. And now I’m back in London again.’

  At this Bea felt a twist of excitement. She was from Sussex, then.

  ‘I was down in Sussex the summer of last year,’ Bea said. ‘For the blackshirt camp. Near Bognor?’

  Hazel paused for a moment, her tea towel wedged into a cup. ‘Aldwick Bay. I used to live there.’

  ‘Smashing spot. Perhaps it was your family that came up with the idea, invited Sir Oswald down?’

  Hazel gave a short laugh. ‘Oh, no. My family aren’t supporters. I went to Sir Oswald’s talk at the theatre, sort of by accident, and that’s how I met Lucia.’