by Maggie Ford
Letty closed the door with exaggerated care, aware of a hard lump growing inside her chest, getting harder and tighter, filling the cavity, pressing against her ribs. She heard Dad’s voice, ‘That you, Letitia?’ and automatically called back, ‘Yes.’ Who else did he think it would be?
The lump was suffocating her. By the time she’d got to the top of the stairs she could hardly breathe. Yet at the same time there was a voice inside her that was crying, ‘You’ll see him – next week, or the week after, you’ll see him. You will!’
‘That you, Letitia?’ Dad called again from the parlour. She could hear him knocking out his pipe against the fender.
She couldn’t face him. Not at the moment. Tomorrow perhaps, when she was more herself. The lump was strangling her.
‘I’m going straight to bed, Dad,’ she said, passing the parlour. Her voice sounded as if someone had their hands round her throat. ‘I’m tired.’
‘Too tired to come in ’ere an’ see me after I waited up for yer?’
‘Yes, Dad, sorry!’
She didn’t care what he thought; wanted only to be on her own. She heard his muffled complaints as she closed the door to her bedroom; heard him come to her door, prayed, Please God, don’t let him come in. Don’t let him start on at me. I want to die …
Face in the pillow she listened, tensed, tears held back, bursting inside her; heard him move away and go into his own room, his voice low as he grumbled to himself about her not caring two hoots about his feelings.
His door closing quietly, the tears oozed on to the pillow, forming large damp patches where the outer corners of her eyes pressed. Never had she known a moment like this, when nothing, no amount of tears, could mend the hurt inside her. It was all over, everything. David was gone. He said he would write to her, let her know about next Sunday. But she knew he wouldn’t. He would leave her behind, take up his life without her, doing things she’d never again share in.
It seemed incredible that six years could end so abruptly and so completely. She still couldn’t believe it, clung to the belief that it wouldn’t be so, yet knew that it was.
The worst hurt of all was the fact of being excluded from all he would do from now on in his life, sharing nothing of it. And it had been her fault. No – it had been Dad’s fault. She hated Dad with all her being for what he had done to her with his selfishness, but more she hated the love she still had for David, exaggerated by separation, making her heart ache with nothing to be done to stop it.
Chapter Eleven
August Bank Holiday Monday was lovely after a sultry, changeable weekend.
Sitting quietly at home, Letty thought despondently of what she and David would have done with such a lot of things going on over this last official holiday before Christmas. The sun shining from a clear sparkling sky, almost as traditional as August Bank Holiday itself, shone only to mock her, it seemed.
Wrapped up in her own unhappiness, Letty was unaware of how it was mocking everyone. Families off for a day at the seaside, laden with buckets and spades, bags full of sandwiches and ginger beer, found trains cancelled, taken up by naval personnel and Reservists.
Moping over David, Letty thought only of how they might have been sharing in London’s enjoyment of its August Bank Holiday: mingling with crowds in shirt sleeves or light summer dresses, strolling in its parks or packing into its zoo.
Together they might have gone to Madame Tussaud’s waxwork museum where the likenesses of King George and Queen Mary were on display, or to the air display at Hendon, or Earls Court where there was a Spanish display. They might have hovered outside Buckingham Palace to see the changing of the guard, hoping for a glimpse of their Majesties in the flesh, or gone to the White City to see its Wild West show. Crowds there were, but an air of expectancy hung over everyone, even over Letty at home.
Days before, the usual quabbles in the Balkans had taken on a more sinister tone, Europe’s mounting tension revealed in every newspaper.
‘Yer read this?’ Armed with a copy of the Evening Standard, Mrs Hall had come to park herself firmly on Dad’s sofa. ‘Them Austrians declarin’ war on Serbia over that bloomin’ Archduke. Them Balkans! All the same. Always squabbling over something or other.’
There was hardly need to read any of the account with Mrs Hall giving a blow by blow commentary on it ever since some young Serbian exile had assassinated the Austrian Archduke Ferdinand on a visit to Bosnia.
‘The Black ’And,’ Mrs Hall said darkly. ‘That’s what they call theirselves, so it says ’ere – them Serbians what shot ’im and ’is wife, poor thing.’
She had lately taken to coming to sit and read to Dad from the evening newspaper, more or less as bored with her lonely life as he was with his. He’d listen intently to her going into the last dot and comma of the smallest drama the paper had to offer.
Murder and bloody robbery now took back seat to events in Europe. More interesting all round, like the progress of some football match, they learned through her of the Austro-Hungarian foreign minister’s suspicion of Serbia’s having a hand in the shooting, his obtaining a promise from Germany of its support, demanding Austrian officials take part in the trials of the assassins, and that France and Russia were pledging to support Serbia in rejecting those demands.
‘It’ll put a cat amongst the pigeons,’ Mrs Hall declared eruditely.
Within days she was in again, sitting in the old wooden chair Dad would normally use, a flat cap pinned to her untidily piled greying hair. The newspaper held as near to the evening light as possible, squinting closely at the print, she had read aloud in stilted syllables: ‘It says ’ere – Austr-i-o-’ungary is rejectin’ Sir Edward Gray’s pro-posal for the dispute to be taken to arbi … arbi-tration at a inter-nation-al con-fer-ence. They’re goin’ ter cause trouble fer a lot of people, as I can see,’ she added her own words.
Despite Mrs Hall’s alarmist attitude, Letty, like most people, had taken the squabble between the two countries with a pinch of salt. The newspapers proclaiming Russia’s mobilising, Germany’s demanding they stop military preparations on its frontier, didn’t truly touch her. It was, after all, a long way from home.
Nor did it bother her that Russia had ignored Germany who promptly declared war on it, asking France to declare its neutrality. She had other things on her mind.
David had not contacted her at all since he had driven off into the darkness towards Arnold Circus three weeks ago. There had been a leaden weight in her chest as she’d waited for the following Sunday to arrive. When he hadn’t arrived with it, vague panic had set in, then more anger than panic. By Monday, busy with the shop, she had pushed it aside. But the following weekend, preceded by that same dull leaden feeling, brought back the sense of panic, almost unbearable, far more acute than the previous week, as if some delayed reaction had accentuated it.
Any word spoken to her would have had her in a flood of tears. Yet she dared not cry in front of Dad. She had her pride. So she was sharp and unapproachable and had a blazing row with him over simply nothing at all, leaving him dazed and bewildered.
It was pride too that almost prevented her from asking Mr Solomons next door if she could use his newly installed telephone. Pride! To be first to give in, to beg David to see her. But she needed David more than she needed pride. And if it brought them together … She almost asked Mrs Hall for her advice, but in the end decided not to. Decisions were lonely things.
Dad had not once queried why David hadn’t come for two Sundays running. When the third Sunday passed without his appearing and Dad still hadn’t queried it, Letty found herself wondering why she was being so loyal to Dad when he couldn’t care less about her feelings.
Full of bitter anger, she made an excuse to him that third Sunday and crept next-door to the Solomons’ shop, hoping her father upstairs in the flat, the window up this warm afternoon, wouldn’t hear her.
Mr Solomons opened the door to her tentative knock, peered at her through thick lenses.
In spite of herself, she waved him to lower his voice.
‘Vat iss it? Your father, is he unwell?’
‘No, Mr Solomons. But I wondered if you’d mind if I could please use your telephone? I have to get in touch with my … fiancé.’ It sounded oddly out of keeping now, but he had been – was – her fiancé. She still wore his ring.
The thin wrinkled face creased into a smile. He nodded. ‘Your fiancé I know. Pleasant – always such a nice greeting he gives me when I see him Sundays.’
Four fingers scratched his lined, unshaven cheek. ‘Come to think of it, lately I ain’t seen him. He’s ill, your fiancé?’
‘No, he’s very well, Mr Solomons.’ Time was going on. Dad would be wondering where she was. ‘But I need to telephone him – a bit urgent.’
‘Of course! Of course!’ He stepped back as his wife called down asking who it was. ‘It’s the young daughter of Mr Bancroft, my dear,’ he called back, and then to Letty. ‘Come in! Come in! You’ll find the telephone the end of the passage.’
‘I’ve got tuppence for …’
‘Oy, tuppence! Keep it! I should charge a neighbour vot hardly comes asking to use it ever? Not like some – they think I got it only for them. Of course use it. Vith my blessings. Let yourself out after. And give my regards to your father. I hope his chest is well with this nice veather we are havink. Such a nasty von he had this vinter. His coughing I could hear halfway down the street.’
Letty watched him mount the stairs out of sight. Grateful to him, she dropped her coins by the table all the same, took the earpiece off its hook, held it tentatively to her ear – the first time she had ever used one, private telephones being something of a rarity.
With five postal deliveries a day she would have got David’s reply the next day, but she needed it now. Speaking louder than she needed to, she gave the telephone exchange David’s number and waited.
The tinny nasal voice that answered was that of David’s mother. Even distorted by distance, Letty could still recognise it.
‘C-can I speak to David, please?’ The sound of the woman’s voice was enough to make her stammer.
‘Who is it speaking?’ came the refined tones.
‘It-it’s Letty … Letitia Bancroft.’
There was a silence so drawn out, she thought the woman had hung up. Then cold and sharp and imperious:
‘What do you want?’
‘Is David there, please? I’d like to talk to him.’ Oh Lord, should she have said speak, not talk? She wasn’t sure.
Mrs Baron’s cool voice replied ‘David is not here.’
‘Can you give him a message then, please? Ask him if he could come and see me.’ She hated the pleading in her own tone.
‘David is not here,’ Mrs Baron repeated as if they were the only words she knew, like a parrot.
‘But can you give him my message?’
‘I’m sorry, Miss … Bancroft.’ Her own name sounded distasteful on the woman’s lips. ‘David is not here, nor do I think he would be much interested in your message.’
‘But if you could …’ She heard the click against her ear, the spurning silence of an empty wire. ‘I only wanted to tell him I love him,’ she said to the dead wires. ‘I only wanted to say that.’
‘You seen the morning papers, love?’ Mrs Hall burst into the shop as Letty was opening up on Wednesday morning, her coarse voice all excited. She thrust the newspaper into Letty’s hands. ‘That bloomin’ Germany! It says ’ere Britain’s at war with Germany.’
It was difficult to read against Mrs Hall’s account of Germany’s having asked Belgium for permission to cross its territory with troops as the easiest route to Paris; that in spite of the King of Belgium’s refusal, troops were already across its border.
Letty couldn’t concentrate on reading anyway, still numbed by Mrs Baron’s attitude toward her. The more she thought of it, the more it seemed to her that David had been hovering in the background, not lifting a finger in protest. Hurt pride ruled. She wouldn’t have him now if he came crawling back on all fours.
‘I said I could see trouble coming, didn’t I?’ gabbled Mrs Hall, and without pausing for breath, ‘Yer Dad upstairs, luv?’
‘Yes,’ Letty answered woodenly. ‘Having his breakfast.’
‘All right if I go up an’ see ’im?’
Not waiting for her sanction, the newspaper snatched from her hand, Ada Hall hurried up the stairs to relay the news to Dad, leaving Letty to shrug off Europe’s current problems and return to her own, far more concerned by them than by the squabbling of nations.
Concerned or not, war bursting on to the streets of Bethnal Green as people woke up to go to work and thrust all personal problems aside.
Outside, paper boys on every corner were having a field day. Newspapers were ripped from their hands and people read avidly as they went off to work. Letty could see them through her shop window, their directions erratic, as if with no idea quite which way to go, work or home again.
Hurrying out, she bought a paper for herself, reading quickly with a tightening in her chest, which might have been excitement or might have been fear, that Britain had asked Germany to respect a treaty guaranteeing Belgian neutrality. The German Chancellor, Theobald von Bethmann-Hollweg, had disparagingly dismissed it as a scrap of paper. Consequently, in defence of Belgium, Britain had, as of eleven o’clock last night, 4 August, declared war with Germany.
Mr Solomons, beside himself, burst in on Letty standing dazed amid the bric-a-brac no one now showed any interest in looking at. Outside, people were beginning to go wild, cheering and hugging each other. Little paper Union Jacks had appeared magically, like rabbits pulled from magicians’ hats, sober citizens of a few moments or so ago waving them dementedly in each other’s faces.
‘Your sister, Lucy!’ Mr Solomons was yelling as though he were ten streets away. ‘On my telephone. Vants urgent to speak to your father!’
Letty did not question him but yelled up the stairs: ‘Dad! It’s Lucy! On Mr Solomons’ telephone next-door! It’s Lucy!’
He didn’t even correct the shortening of her sister’s name, coming hurrying down, more nimble than she’d seen him in months, Mrs Hall puffing down behind him as he followed his neighbour out.
Automatically, Letty trailed out after them, waited as her father bawled down the mouthpiece: ‘Yes, I ’eard! Don’t get excited. We ain’t goin’ ter be slaughtered. Well, if it’s upset yer that much, Jack can bring you and the girls over.’
‘Don’t vorry, Letty my dear.’ Mr Solomons extended a thin hand to pat hers as she stood uselessly by, biting her lip. ‘It is as your father says. No need for upsets. Ve are an island vith no borders. No soldiers coming to drag us out of our beds and throw us out of our homes and say to kill us if ve don’t obey and leave.’
His sunken brown eyes held a faraway look, reliving that day he and his family, with hardly more than what they stood up in, had trundled a small rickety cart piled high with what belongings it would carry from their home in Galicia. But Letty saw only kindness in those eyes.
‘I’m not worried, Mr Solomons. Lucy gets in such a state sometimes.’
Dad had hardly come off the phone when it rang again, tinnily. It was answered by Mr Solomons who hastily waved him back.
‘It’s your other daughter, Mr Bancroft. It’s your Vinny.’
Letty hovered, listening to Dad repeat himself. Outside the corn chandler’s clusters of grubby kids were whooping past, blowing whistles. War was exciting, a celebration, national pride on everyone’s face.
By evening, Letty having rustled up some sort of tea for them all, the family sat together discussing war while she wondered what David was doing, what he was thinking. Surely he would send her a message now?
Nothing. No word – nothing. Everywhere men in an unprecedented flush of national solidarity were signing on in droves to fight the Boche.
Billy came to see her. His roun
d blue eyes glowed with a fervour of excitement.
‘I’ve joined up, Let!’ he almost shouted at her as she stood in the middle of her shop, blinking at him in his rough khaki uniform, puttees anchoring his stance, peaked cap set at a jaunty angle.
‘They took me on without a blinkin’ second’s hesitation. Passed me medical. A1 an’ signed on the dotted line before yer could say ’ow’s yer farver! So now I’m a soldier, Let. What d’yer fink? D’yer fancy me? I could take yer out tonight before I go off to join me regiment if yer like.’ He saw her hesitate. ‘Go on, Let. Fer old time’s sake. Yer’ll make me proud.’
What could she say but yes? Seeing Billy standing so debonair, so eager to get into the fray and fight for his country, be a hero, she felt a twinge of affection for him. Not love. Only one man had claim to that. If he hadn’t had, she could have loved Billy with all her heart; kind, affable, his square face firm and cheery with cockney perkiness. Her heart almost began to ache for the chance she’d missed, almost verged on making her want to turn her back on the past, to let her feelings for Billy take her where they would, but some invisible thread held her and she hadn’t the strength to throw it off.
Billy took her to the music hall, the Hackney Empire, and then to a little corner cafe for a slap up meal of pie and mash, saveloys and peas pudding for himself. He talked the whole evening, made her laugh, then took her home, kissed her on the cheek when she did not offer her lips, asked if she would write to him. She said yes, she would.
After he’d gone, she cried, missing him already, felt terribly sad. Beneath the banter of goodbye he had looked strangely lonely as he threw her that final wave, sort of lost. She had felt an urge to run after him, throw her arms about him and tell him it would be all right – it would all be over by Christmas. The newspapers that had gravely reported the retreat of the British Expeditionary Force from Mons at the end of August were now, by the beginning of September, gleefully reporting the Germans retreating back to the River Aisne.
