by Roland Moore
Henry took a deep breath and nudged Vince roughly on the arm. The thug wasn’t expecting this.
“I’ve given you your last supper,” Henry said, full of steel, with only his eyes betraying his nerves. “I want you to know that I disagree wholeheartedly with you sending Connie to London.”
“You do, do you?”
“And when she gives you the key. When she gets back. I want you to leave us immediately.”
“Is that what she wants?”
“She doesn’t know I’m saying this to you.” Henry expected Vince to leap up from his chair and grab his throat, but to his surprise the big man stayed in his seat, transfixed by the flames in the grate as if they were dancers at a burlesque show.
“Got to admire you, bookworm.” Vince smiled. “First you try the old violence on me and now you’re just using words. But it’s obvious you don’t want me here.”
“That’s right. We’ve done quite enough for you.” How much taunting would Vince take before he snapped?
“Well, I planned to go anyway. When I got the key.”
“That’s as maybe. But you planned to take my wife with you, didn’t you?”
Vince rubbed a big paw over his mouth, the sound of stubble being brushed. And then he showed his teeth in a broad grin. “You’re smarter than I thought. That’s what reading books gives you, eh?”
“Knowledge is power,” Henry said tightly.
“A gun in the ribs is power,” Vince replied. Henry took a step backwards, ready for an attack. “Relax. I’m not going to hurt you. This is about you and Con, ain’t it? Maybe we should give her the choice. See where she wants to go.”
“No.” There was no debate to be had. “You think sending her to London will make her miss everything you did there?”
“Maybe.” Vince considered. “It’s her home. Those streets. Those people.”
“I love her,” Henry said.
Vince couldn’t say the same.
“So I want you gone.” Henry went out the front door. It was raining. He pulled his bike away from the wall and got on, pushing away down the high street. His legs were shaking and he found it hard to get a purchase on the pedals. But he’d done it. He’d said his piece to Vince Halliday, and he’d found using words far easier than using a weapon. Henry felt both elated and fearful. But, above all, he finally felt brave.
He didn’t see Vince Halliday emerge from the vicarage, intent on following him. It was raining hard, so Vince turned up his collar to shut out some of the cold. He couldn’t keep up with a bicycle, but he knew the name of the forest where Henry was headed. He knew about Gorley Woods.
Henry Jameson didn’t see the man chasing after him.
But someone did. A stick-thin old woman, struggling against the wind whistling down the high street. Mrs Gladys Gulliver.
Glory stopped running three streets away. She couldn’t see any sign of Trilby Hat or Amos. She was nursing her sore feet and deciding what to do, when any plans were undone by the wail of air-raid sirens. Dutifully, she made her way – along with hundreds of others – down into the nearest tube station. Packed in like sardines by the platform, Glory waited for the bombing raid to stop and for the all-clear to be given. When it eventually came, it was nearly eight o’clock and night had fallen. Glory Wayland kept to the shadows and made her way to the only place she knew. Vince’s bedsit.
Someone else heading there was Connie Carter. She’d alighted from the train at Euston and made her way to the East End. The furious and devastating bombing raids of the Blitz had stopped for the time being, and although vast areas of buildings were still rubble shrines to the houses that had once stood there, the area was slowly getting back on its feet. Lord Latham, leader of the London County Council, had devised his “Plans for London” and Londoners were reassured that their city was going to rise from the ashes of the Luftwaffe bombings. And when the bombing raids did happen, the retreat of people to the haven of the underground stations had become a feature of London life – something as common as going to the markets and popping into the pub for a drink. The normalising of the abnormal had shown, once again, the true resilience of people under pressure.
Connie walked along the rain-soaked pavements, nearing, by each footfall, the old familiar roads of her East End. It felt like home; some comfort after she’d lost everything in Helmstead. The train journey from Helmstead had been a nerve-wracking experience for Connie – not only because she was contravening War Office policy by being a civilian making “an unnecessary journey” but it was the first journey that she’d undertaken since the derailment of the train from Brinford. She’d found herself scrunching her nails nervously into her palms each time the carriages clattered over a join in the tracks. But she was also worried about leaving Henry with Vince in the vicarage, praying that nothing would spark any further arguments and violence between them. Maybe, if nothing else happened, there would be a way for her to get back with Henry.
After the incident with the shotgun, Henry hadn’t said much more. When they were in their bedroom, Connie had made a desperate attempt to get him to talk.
“If I go to London tomorrow, I want us to talk when I get back.”
“If you get back.” He pulled the sheets up to his neck, scrunching up into a foetal position. “Maybe you should stay there for a while.”
“No. I want us to work this thing out.”
“I’m too tired, Connie. Can’t you see?” And he turned out the bedside light. Neither of them slept.
Connie had needed time off work to go to London. There was no way she could just ask for a holiday – there was a war on! You couldn’t just slope off when you felt like it. So she did the only thing she could: lying about being ill and then praying that no one would spot her sneaking to Helmstead station. She was lucky. Even the hawk eyes of Gladys Gulliver hadn’t spotted her in her best maroon hat and coat running to catch the train to Birmingham. And a reluctant Henry had kept up the pretence, informing Farmer Finch that Connie was in bed with influenza.
It was getting dark and the streets were deserted when Connie got to the building where Vince had lived – a tall brown-bricked Victorian building that had been converted into a warren of tiny rooms, each rented out to the working class of East London. During the walk along the streets, Connie had been sensitive to anyone else she spotted. Were they watching her? Did they work for Amos Ackley? But – to her relief – she had got here unscathed and, as far as she knew, without being followed. Connie checked the address on the piece of paper that Vince had given her and made her way into the building. It smelt of old tobacco smoke. A threadbare red carpet hugged a twisting staircase around a mesh-gated lift displaying an “out of order” sign. She had no option but to take the stairs. Reaching the third floor, Connie found flat 14. She produced the front-door key, which Vince had given her and let herself in, shutting the door quickly behind herself before turning on the light. It was a tiny room, dominated by a single unmade bed in the centre of the room. A basin on the wall by the window sported a shaving brush and a discarded coating of black bristles around the plug hole. The shaving mirror had a large crack across its surface that gave anyone looking into it a long scar on their right cheek. A pile of old newspapers sat in front of a wardrobe. Connie pulled the single curtain over the single window and moved the newspapers. She opened the wardrobe. There was a blue shirt and a grey suit inside, plus some balled-up pairs of socks that looked like fluffy hand grenades. A pair of brown brogues sat at the bottom, but as Connie glanced at them she noticed something else underneath. A small wicker basket with a wicker lid. Connie took it out and placed it on the unmade bed. Opening the lid, she found some documents: Vince’s ration book, his identification documents – including a forged paper that had Vince’s photograph with the name Douglas Manning. Connie shuddered to wonder what scam that was intended for. At the bottom of the basket was something else. Something that caused her to stop in her tracks.
It was a small photograph – scuffed and
dog-eared – of Connie Carter.
He’d kept it.
Connie smiled, despite herself. It was the first time she’d smiled since yesterday. Maybe Vince had cared for her after all. She composed herself and scooped all the documents – with the exception of the photograph of herself – into her handbag. Vince might need them. Then she hastily pushed the basket back under the tan shoes in the wardrobe. She opened her handbag, keen to finish what she came for. Producing a long metal nail file, Connie went to the single window of the flat. She counted the floorboards from the window – just as Vince had instructed her. One, two, three. And then she pushed her nail file into the gap by the third floor board. The end of the plank was prised up and Connie was able to get a purchase on it with her finger nails. Lifting it up, she caught a glimpse of a grey metal box hidden in the recess. She hoped it would have the key that Vince needed inside. She was about to lift the floorboard higher so she could grab the box, when the door to Vince’s bedsit opened. Connie spun round to face whoever it was, the nail file held like a small dagger in her hand.
A thin woman with a cloche hat stared at her.
Chapter 14
The woman in the cloche hat entered the room, closing the door behind her.
For a few seconds the two women weighed each other up. Connie clocked the bandage around the girl’s neck, her large eyes dulled by sadness and regret. Despite being in her teens, this was a woman whose worries had aged her. She’d experienced things that she shouldn’t have had to. Connie had a good idea who she was, but she wasn’t sure how that could be possible, given what she’d been told.
“I was told to come ‘ere. By Vince,” Connie said defensively, wondering if the woman thought she was trespassing or burgling the place. Who was she? Did she live here, since Vince had left? Or perhaps she lived here with Vince.
The thin woman scowled, taking this in, but saying nothing as she scanned the room. Connie wondered why she wasn’t saying anything. The tension of having a long silence niggled her.
“Ain’t you going to say nothing?”
Glory pointed to the bandage on her neck.
A rush of confusing thoughts hit her. So was this really Glory Wayland, the girl on Barnes Common? Didn’t Vince say she was dead? What was she doing here?
Connie managed a feeble, “He told me about you.” As if she was just some friend of a friend she was meeting at a tea dance. But this one sentence ignited a light in the girl’s eyes. She took out a notepad and started to write furiously. Connie wondered what she was doing. Then she realised that Glory couldn’t talk. The girl tapped the page she had just filled. It said: “You’ve seen him?”
Connie nodded. “More’s the pity. He’s caused a whole heap of trouble. I’m Connie, by the way.”
Glory rolled her eyes. A wince of begrudging acknowledgement. She’d guessed as much.
She let her eyes soak up the image of Connie Carter, really examining her, as if she was some mythical creature whom she had only heard tales about. This was the siren who could lure any man. With her dark-red lipstick and up-to-date waved hairstyle, maroon coat, matching hat, plus a long black skirt, Connie looked like a stylish actress out of Picturegoer Magazine. Glory always supposed she would be jealous of Connie Carter; a woman whose name had been indelibly rubbed in her face by Vince since the moment they’d met. Connie always did this better. Connie would have got more money out of that guy. Connie knew how to speak to a man to get him interested. Glory was always made to feel in the shadow of this glorious creature.
But what Vince thought didn’t matter any more. So Glory found she felt no jealousy or resentment, just a curious interest. Meeting Connie was now a box to be ticked, nothing more. She scrawled on her notepad: “Nice to meet you. Where is Vince?”
“He’s living with my husband.”
Glory looked confused.
“It’s a long story.”
She decided not to pursue it. Connie patted the end of the bed, encouraging Glory to sit down.
“London’s not changed. Rubble and rain.” Connie smiled, attempting to break the ice.
Glory smiled. It seemed to do the trick.
After this, the two women seemed to bond – although Connie, due to Glory’s vocal disability, did most of the talking. But then Connie was happy to talk. And when she wasn’t talking, she would try to save Glory from writing in her pad by preempting answers or filling in the rest of a sentence verbally after Glory had written a prompting word or two. They sat on the bed and chatted – time running away with them. Connie had been worried to hear about how Vince had left Gloria at the mercy of Amos Ackerly and his men. Glory wanted to hear about what it was like to be a Land Girl.
Finally, Connie told her more about how Vince had turned up in Helmstead – the place she was stationed as a Land Girl. She told her the whole sorry tale, ending with how she had been sent to get the key from under the floorboards and bring it back to Vince. Then he would, she hoped, disappear out of their lives. Glory shrugged, as if she didn’t entirely believe that Vince would keep his word either. Connie smiled, despite herself. They both knew what Vince was like and what he was capable of. And then the warm camaraderie was punctured as Connie remembered something. “Oh my God. The time!” she said in a panic.
It had gone ten o’clock in the evening. Connie had missed the last train back to Birmingham.
There was no way of getting home now. She’d have to wait until tomorrow. Feeling churned up about having to spend a night in London, Connie slumped on the bed, depressed. Glory scribbled on her pad: “Wait.” And then she tried to rally Connie’s mood by finding a half-full bottle of whisky in the drawer by the bed. She found a tumbler and a mug; as mismatched bedfellows as the women drinking from them. The vessels would have to do. She poured liberal measures for the two of them. The two damaged women in Vince Halliday’s life clinked glasses and talked some more.
“This is a bit like his other flat,” Connie commented. “Except the other one had more mould.”
Glory smiled. She winced at the taste of the alcohol, but gulped it down anyway.
“Odd thing is, I feel more at home here than I do at the vicarage.” Glory looked confused at this, so Connie continued, “I live in the vicarage. Married to a vicar. Don’t know for how much longer, though. He deserves someone better than me.” Now it was Connie’s turn to take a gulp of whisky. “We were having problems before Vince turned up. But funny thing was, I thought they’d all fix themselves.” She considered this and then became more emphatic. “They would have done. It was just that I was so different to him. He was so different to me. But we could have fixed all that and found some common ground, you know?”
Glory nodded. She didn’t really know, but thought a nod was the best form of support for her new-found friend.
It didn’t take too much alcohol to make Gloria Wayland quite sleepy. She’d had an exhausting day since coming out of hospital. Gloria fell fast asleep on one side of the bed. Connie wrapped the sheet around her, touched the hair on her head and picked up her notebook to put it on the side. She idly flicked through it. There were a handful of pages that had been used; the odd phrase and question. Please, thank you, no, yes, Gloria. Useful things that could probably be reused time and time again. But one page caught Connie’s attention. Glory had drawn a horse, an intricate and fairly accurate portrait. Another page had a cottage drawn on it, picture-book style, with a single puff of smoke coming from the chimney; the windows rounded slightly to give the unintentional appearance of smiling eyes. A happy home. The girl could be an artist, Connie thought, but in her world of late-night dives and sleazy men, and with the breaks she’d been given, it was unlikely that she’d ever fulfil that potential. It was a sad state of affairs.
Connie slipped the notebook and pencil into Glory’s small handbag. As she placed it inside, something caught her eye in the dark folds: a glint of metal reflecting light from the lamp in the room. Connie looked closer and realised it was a scalpel. The type a surgeo
n might use: a heavy and ridged metal handle with a sharp blade on top. She looked at the mute girl and wondered what it was doing in her handbag. Had she stolen it from the hospital? Was it for protection?
It made Connie feel uneasy. She fastened the handbag and put it down by Glory’s side of the bed. Connie contemplated sleeping beside her, and put her head down for a bit. But sleep didn’t come easily. Woozy thoughts of Henry, the rationale of clear thought blurred by a large tumbler of whisky. Connie found her stomach rumbling from lack of food, so she decided to go out and see if she could find something to eat. And maybe she could find a telephone to call Henry. She fastened her jacket, straightened her hat and left the sleeping Glory.
Connie found the streets outside the building dark and cold. There didn’t seem to be a soul around and all the street lights were turned off, making it hard to find her way. Using the light of the partial moon to see, Connie walked along the widest road she could find – figuring that there might be some late-night corner house open. But the further she walked, the less hopeful she became. Still not seeing another living person, she started to wonder whether there was any point continuing. Her heels clip-clopped along the streets as a fine drizzle started to fall, and her feet were getting sore. Connie turned up her collar and carried on. Starting to feel a little lost, she slowed her pace. Perhaps she should go back? Suddenly she noticed a man in the distance. He was wearing some sort of waterproof coat, glistening darkly in the drizzle, and he seemed to have a helmet of some sort on. He waved his hand at her.
“Oi!” he shouted at Connie, coming over, urgency in his gait.
Connie instinctively backed away, ready to run. Was it one of Ackerly’s men?
But as soon as the man came into the light of the moon, everything made sense and Connie felt a bit foolish. On the man’s helmet were the initials A.R.P. He was an Air-Raid Precaution Warden. In his forties and with a glossy well-fed face, he berated Connie Carter for being out at night. Didn’t she know there was a curfew? It all came flooding back to Connie now. She apologised profusely for her stupidity. She hadn’t been back to London for a while. And she was hungry, that’s all, and had gone out to find somewhere to eat.
