by Juliet West
‘Not hungry neither. I want to go on the holiday now.’ She placed the case on the floor and sat on it.
Hazel crouched in front of Jasmin and grasped both her hands.
‘I’m afraid we can’t go on the holiday with Winnie today.’ Hazel’s eyes were wet but somehow she was smiling. ‘Mummy has been asked to do some special war work. It shouldn’t take very long, and until I get back Nee-Nee is going to look after you. Won’t that be exciting?’
Jasmin nodded, but she looked uncertain. ‘Can I see the lions with Nee-Nee?’
Francine put her hand on Jasmin’s head. ‘We’ll have all manner of adventures, darling. It will be great fun, just you see.’
The inspector coughed. Hazel put her arms around Jasmin and hugged her. ‘Bye, sweet girl.’ She kissed her daughter’s cheek, then disappeared into the hall where the policewoman was waiting.
31
A wasp had landed near the ashtray on Tom’s desk. He finished the water in his tumbler, shook the drips onto the floor and turned the glass upside down to trap it. Once this story was written, he’d open the window and set the wasp free.
‘Smart!’
When the news editor yelled the whole office jumped. Tom grabbed up his notebook and pencil and strode across to the newsdesk.
‘More 18Bs. Fascists, in the main. Five pars should do it.’ Crow thrust the wire into his hand without looking at him. His face was set in its usual grimace, the pinched and yellowed skin stretched across his cheekbones.
‘Yes, Mr Crow. And the scrap-metal story?’
‘Why are you still here? File the fascists first, for fuck’s sake.’
Tom hurried back to his desk. It was a hot day and the sun beat in through the fourth-floor windows. It was a terrible thing to be out of Crow’s favour. All because of a tiny mistake in a story about a train derailment. Did anyone really give two hoots which class of engine had left the tracks?
He told himself to focus on the 18Bs story, to ignore the fine sweat which had broken out on his forehead. Bill Cork had never let on about Tom’s past, thank Christ; if Crow found out he used to be in the British Union he’d be ripped to shreds, never mind that he’d left four years ago and that he’d only ever been dragged into it by his mother.
Amazing to think that the British fascists were all but finished now. At first there were just a handful of arrests, Mosley and other high-ups, speakers whose names he recognized from meetings and rallies. But this past week they seemed to be going for anyone who’d ever delivered a leaflet or sold the Blackshirt on a street corner. He thought of his mum in Boone Street, her old uniform still hanging in the under-stairs cupboard along with the winter coats. She’d be all right, wouldn’t she? Surely the police had better things to do than to come after her?
He wiped his forehead with his shirtsleeve, then began to read the Press Association report. The following members of the British Union were this morning arrested and detained under the Defence Regulations 18B . . . He scanned the list of names. Closed his eyes as a pulse hammered below his brow.
Gerald stopped battering his typewriter keys and stared across from his seat opposite. ‘All right, my man?’ he said. ‘You look rather rattled.’
Tom realized he was holding his breath. ‘Just a bit warm in here,’ he said, pulling his shirt collar away from his neck. He fanned himself with the wire, then angled it towards Gerald. ‘More blackshirts banged up.’
‘Good show.’
Tom swiped the saucepans story from his typewriter, wound in a fresh sheet of paper and began to type. He ignored the wasp’s buzzing, the angry tap-tap of its body as it threw itself against the sides of the glass.
Gerald and the others were going to the pub at the end of the shift, but Tom didn’t fancy joining them. They were decent enough but they were older men, ex-public school mostly, drinkers with dicky hearts, Great War veterans. The young and the fit had already gone.
Instead he went down to the composing room to see if Bill was around. ‘Day off,’ shouted old Charlie, hunched over his stone. Tom wiped his brow: even hotter down here with the heat from the machines. Each clank of a mallet was like a direct hit on his skull.
‘Not to worry. I’ll catch him next week.’
‘You’ll have to be quick. Call-up’s come.’
Did he hear Charlie right over the din? Of course he did. The only surprise was that Bill hadn’t got his papers sooner. Petra would be beside herself. He made up his mind to visit Bill and Petra at the weekend, use his coupon to buy the children some sweets.
In the pub opposite Lewisham station he ordered a pint, careful to keep his left hand in his pocket so as not to attract the stares of the girls who were looking across at him from the table in the window. He recognized one of them – Elsie Warlock, whose parents owned the fried-fish shop on Lee High Road. Elsie knew Jillie, didn’t she? Well, he couldn’t be bothered to go over, to grin through the congratulations and all that gushy stuff.
Fixing his eyes on the evening paper, he tried to read the front page but found it impossible to concentrate. His mind kept returning to the PA wire, the alphabetical list of names. She’d been there, right at the top. Hazel Alexander. The thing that really pained him was that when he’d read her name, he’d felt a punch of relief. She’s not married then, was the thought that flew into his mind, and now he loathed himself for it. What could it possibly matter to him whether or not she was married? Hazel was in prison and it served her bloody right. She ought to be locked up along with the other fascists, separated from her lover, or lovers – those men his mother had mentioned in her letter. To think he’d been taken in by Hazel a second time, had even confessed his love in that ridiculous letter from Albacete. When he found out the truth, the life she was really living, he’d longed for revenge and now, in a sense, he had it. It was just a pity he couldn’t seem to summon any pleasure.
He ordered a second pint and lit a cigarette. There’d been another name he recognized on the list: Lucia Knight. Lucia, the snooty one who liked the sound of her own voice. Tom had always thought she was dangerous. And wasn’t that the point of these 18B detentions, to imprison people who might be dangerous to the State? Strange to imagine all those posh girls slumming it inside, though. Not that the 18Bs had it too bad. All sorts of privileges, apparently. Mosley had denied the reports about champagne and red wine but if Tom had learned one thing in Fleet Street, it was that these stories were never a complete fiction . . .
‘Tommy Smart!’ It was Elsie, tottering up to the bar, all heels and lipstick. ‘You’re a dark horse, all right.’
‘Evening, Elsie.’
‘When’s the party then?’
Tom raised his eyebrows and Elsie elbowed him, catching his left arm. He tried not to wince. ‘Party?’
‘Engagement party. You and Jillie! She came in the shop, showed us the ring.’
‘We thought we’d keep things low-key. Jillie doesn’t like a fuss.’
‘That what she told you, is it?’ Elsie winked and took a ten-bob note from her purse. ‘You’d better start saving, I’d say.’
Tom screwed his cigarette end into the ashtray. ‘Love to stay and chat but the old girl’s expecting me.’ He smiled and tipped his trilby, then strode four steps to the pub door. He used the remains of his left hand to pull the door open, and he could feel the girls’ eyes on him. Why not let them get a good look after all? They were just the type to enjoy a freak show.
At home, his mum started up the minute he walked in the door. She still had on her best blouse because she’d been to see the Quaker minister, the Friend-in-Chief or whatever he was called.
‘Ever such a simple ceremony,’ she wittered. ‘No pomp or fuss, and you get a lovely certificate that we all sign. The whole congregation!’ She put her hand to her heart as if a signed certificate was akin to a divine blessing. ‘What do you think? A Quaker wedding, will it be?’
Tom loosened his tie and draped his jacket over the stair-post. ‘I don’t mind, Mum. If Jil
lie’s happy with it—’
‘But I want you both to be happy with it. As for timings, it’s whenever you’re ready. Next month if that suits.’
‘You know that’s too soon.’ He went into the kitchen and his mum followed. ‘We’ll need savings.’
‘There’s soup. Or shall I fry you egg and chips?’
‘Soup’s fine,’ he said, reaching for the matchbox to light the ring. He tried to grip the box with the mangled stumps of fingers but it slid out of his grasp and matches scattered across the floor.
‘Let me do it, love.’ She’d already bent down to start picking up the mess. Christ, he hated it when she treated him like an invalid, when she clucked with sympathy. And it was a dishonest kind of sympathy, because he knew that she was absolutely bloody delighted he’d had half his hand shot off at Jarama. ‘Escaped with a Blighty,’ he’d overheard her telling one of the new Quaker friends, barely disguising the glee in her voice. To think how upset she’d been about him going, yet the fascists in Spain had been able to achieve what Mosley never could. They’d got him sent home and would keep him home for good. No army would want him now.
He crouched and picked up the last few matches, dropped them into the box which she held open. She was on about the wedding again.
‘Maybe not next month, love, but the autumn, perhaps? September’s good for a wedding. Married in September’s golden glow, smooth and serene your life will go.’ She lit the gas ring and took a bowl from the rack.
Tom sat down heavily at the table. ‘Next year, more like. There’s no rush, is there?’
She sighed. ‘I’m looking forward to it, that’s all. To having Jillie here, and God willing, you’ll want to start a family. It’s awfully quiet since Mr Frowse went. Can’t believe I’m saying it but I miss the racket from his wireless, I really do.’
‘We won’t be living here permanent, you know that, Mum.’
‘But a year or two, while you’re saving up? And think what a help I could be to Jillie. She’s a smashing girl but she won’t know much about homemaking, if the mother is anything to go by. We’ll be a marvellous team, I know it.’
‘She’s very fond of you.’
Bea smiled. ‘You couldn’t have chosen better.’
32
The minute he came in from work she could tell Tom was in a strange mood: jittery with the matches, snappy about the wedding. And now he’d disappeared to bed for an early night. She could hear him moving around in the front bedroom. It was a nice-sized room, there’d be plenty of space for Jillie too, and of course the box room next door would be perfect for a new arrival.
It was nine-thirty, a warm evening, and she hadn’t yet drawn the blackout blinds: there was still enough light to knit by. She had almost finished another blanket for the refugee children. Poor little mites with their twiggy legs and shadows under their eyes. What a crime it was, she thought, to have bags under your eyes at the age of seven.
She’d washed the jumpers before she unpicked them but Harold’s presence was there somehow, the inky smell of him mixed up with the scent of soap flakes. Even before the funeral there were mutters about clearing his clothes – Mary next door had been fixated on it, seemed to think Bea would never stop grieving until all traces of Harold had been removed from the house. But Bea had held firm and now she was glad. Harold would be pleased to think of his old pullovers helping out those unfortunate children. ‘Isn’t that right, love?’ she said to him under her breath.
Upstairs, there was a creak as Tom climbed into bed. He’d filled out over the past couple of years. Thank heavens, because when he came back from Spain he was a pitiful sight, thin and grubby, his poor arm strapped up against a too-big white shirt donated by the Red Cross. There were tears in Harold’s eyes, the day Tom arrived home. Later, in bed, Harold sobbed with relief to have him back, and Bea felt guilty for ever doubting his love for their son. Harold was very ill. The winter fever had turned out to be something much worse: a ‘mass’ was what the doctor called it, a mass in his lungs that would only grow bigger. They’d known nothing but fear since the diagnosis, but when Harold stopped crying that night Bea sensed a new peace in his soul. With Tom home, Harold gave himself permission to die. It was as if he had found his Inward Light, just as the Quakers described it.
Bea looked up and realized she was sitting in near-darkness. She drew the blinds, switched on the lamp and fiddled with the wireless dial. When the knock came on the door it was very quiet at first, and she dismissed the tapping as drumbeats on the music programme. But no, there was the knock again, in the silent seconds before the dance band began the next number. She lifted the edge of the blind and peered through the side pane of the bay window, onto the path. The person on the doorstep was standing close to the front door. All she could see was the sleeve of a dark-coloured jacket.
The argument had blown up over a pair of tweezers, of all things. The mother had lost the tweezers and accused Jillie of taking them, and Jillie knew she hadn’t but her mother flew into a rage, lobbed a high-heeled shoe from the top of the stairs right down to the bottom where Jillie was standing in the hallway. She hadn’t dodged quick enough and there was a lump on the back of her head where the heel had hit.
‘Sorry to turn up so late,’ sobbed Jillie. She was on the settee between Tom and Bea. ‘I can’t go back there. Not tonight. She’s cracked.’
Tom looked at Bea over Jillie’s bowed head. ‘I’ll walk you back home if you like,’ he said. ‘See if she’s calmed down.’
‘Nonsense, Tom,’ dismissed Bea. ‘You can’t go out like that.’ She flapped her hand in his direction, frowning at his pyjamas. ‘Stay here, Jillie. I’ll make up the spare room.’
Jillie blew her nose and gazed at Bea. ‘Would you? Oh, Mrs Smart, I’d be ever so grateful.’
‘Won’t your mum worry?’ asked Tom.
‘I told her I was coming here. Anyway, it serves her right.’ She sniffed triumphantly and circled her shoulders, stretched a hand out – her fingernails were painted cherry red, Bea noticed – and rested it on Tom’s knee.
Next morning Bea watched Tom saying goodbye to Jillie on the front path. She had tipped her little face up to him, and both arms were flung around his neck. He patted her in a way that was kind but not tender. Perhaps it gave him discomfort to be embraced so fiercely; his poor arm had never completely healed, and his hand often flared up around the scars. Eventually she peeled off him, and then he pecked her on the cheek and rushed off towards the station. Jillie had to get to her job, too, but she didn’t seem in much of a hurry. She checked her face in a pocket mirror, patted some powder over the spots and then sauntered towards the park.
Bea went into the box room and saw that Jillie hadn’t pulled the sheets back for airing. Hadn’t even drawn the curtains. The girl was under a lot of strain, bless her. She’d find no arguments once she was living here, thought Bea. No tweezers or flying shoes.
The billboard headline leaped out as she passed the newsagent’s en route to the library: MORE FASCISTS DETAINED. Her breath quickened a little, to think what might have been if she’d stayed in the movement. Fortunate to have got out when she did, to have broken all ties. It had been difficult at the time, quite a wrench. But once she was out she’d begun to feel a giddying sense of relief. She could go to Mr Perlman’s with a clear conscience. She no longer had to puzzle over the rights and wrongs of this policy or that. Harold had been pleased, too. ‘Never quite trusted Mosley,’ he’d muttered. And of course if she hadn’t left the blackshirts, she would never have found the Quakers. Odd how things turned out.
She wasn’t one for mysticism, for souls and spirituality. But the Friends talked about the spirit in a matter-of-fact, gentle fashion – nothing hellfire or hocus-pocus about it. They left you alone to find peace in your own way. Shine a light into the dark corners of your mind – that’s what you had to do. And you could do it just by sitting quietly and thinking peaceful thoughts. It was a kind of deliverance.
On the
way home from the library, her basket weighed down with a fresh set of books, she took a detour into Manor Park. It was warm and the young squirrels played among the branches. The avenue of horse chestnuts was in full bloom, magnificent white spikes that took your breath away. For the first time in months she thought of Charles – the chestnut in flower outside the hotel window, the lilies in the vase – and she allowed her mind to drift and sway around the memory.
A memory. That’s all it could ever be. She would never see him again now, she’d made sure of that. Sometimes Bea remembered Hazel, swallowed down a surge of guilt at the letter she had sent Tom, but it didn’t take much to reassure herself. The means had justified the ends. As a mother, you had to do what was right, even when the right thing seemed awfully close to the wrong.
33
Jasmin had decided that she didn’t like the beach. ‘Too hurty,’ she said, when the pebbles dug into her feet as she struggled towards the patch of sand beyond the shingle. Francine had some sympathy – she herself had always found the shingle an abomination – but she would have to jolly Jasmin along, otherwise they would be stuck in the house all afternoon and the prospect of that was enough to make Francine weep.
‘We’ll buy you some beach shoes for next time, darling,’ called Francine. She watched Jasmin lunge forward, her tangled hair lifting in the breeze, bucket wobbling in her hand. ‘There, you’ve made it now. Build a sandcastle. Good girl.’ Francine huffed warm breath onto the lenses of her sunglasses, polished them with the hem of her dress and put them on. She would keep her eyes straight ahead, out towards the horizon, and try to believe that the world was normal. The barbed wire hadn’t quite reached this stretch of beach yet. Bognor seafront looked a fright, and Mrs Waite had told her that the foreshore would soon be mined. Gun emplacements, scaffolding – Sussex was ready for the Hun.
The evacuation from France had begun at the end of May, the rag-tag fleet sailing across the Channel while at home anyone with a traitorous whiff was rounded up and detained. Infuriating that Hazel should be among them, but Francine could understand the government’s paranoia. And now the troops, what was left of them, were home. France had fallen, and nothing but the sea and this hurty beach stood between England and the enemy. God, the irony was almost amusing. All those children evacuated from London to the south coast, yet now their parents were demanding their safe return to the capital. Perhaps, when she visited Holloway next week, she could explain to Hazel that Sussex was no longer a haven, that they’d actually be better off in Earls Court. If the Nazis stepped onto the beach at Aldwick, where on earth would they hide? In London there would be options.
