by Ian Mortimer
And off again, and on again.
‘That’s enough, John,’ she says, filling a kettle of water from the tap at the sink and putting it on the large metal machine. She takes a small piece of wood from a box nearby and strikes it against the side, and it instantly produces a flame. She then ignites the air moving through the large metal machine and it produces flames directly beneath the kettle. Soon the kettle starts whistling and she pours the water into a pot with a spout, and stirs it. ‘Why don’t you go through to the front room?’ she says. ‘It’s more comfortable in there. I’ll be through in a minute with the tea.’
I return to the landing and go through the other door. This large room runs the whole width of the house. To the left of the window, which faces the street, is a bed with a purple woollen blanket and a white linen-covered pillow. A chest containing four drawers is beside the bed. On the other side of the room, there are two cloth-covered chairs with arms and a cloth-covered padded bench. In the middle of the room, in front of the cloth-covered bench, is a low table with various books on it, and a newspaper. There are pictures in here too. There’s a painting of a castle and some trees by a lake, another of a dog, and there is a collection of small black-and-white pictures of people, all hung together. There are about two dozen of them, some of individuals and some of groups: old and young, men and women, and several children too.
‘You’ve met my family, I see,’ says Celia as she comes into the room bearing a tray on which the pot stands with some cups. ‘Could you be a darling and move those books for me,’ she asks, nodding in the direction of the table.
I pile the books on the floor, and toss the newspaper on to the cloth-covered bench. She sets the tray down, and sits on one of the chairs.
‘Have you read all these?’ I ask.
‘Most of them. I was reading English here at the University College in Exeter . . .’
‘Women are allowed to study there?’
‘Of course. This isn’t the Dark Ages, you know. I was reading English literature until the war came along. Daddy was forced to come out of retirement and re-join the army, running a training camp. And I was told that the university courses would reconvene when peace resumed. Unfortunately they couldn’t tell me when that would be. So I had to get a job – and they were crying out for nurses. I keep my hand in with my studies, reading poetry, in between nursing shifts.’
She pours the tea.
‘Do you have an earth closet?’ I ask, feeling the urge.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘A chamber of office?’
‘Oh,’ and she laughs. ‘A WC. Yes. Just down the first flight of stairs, and through the door straight ahead of you.’
I go down the stairs, wondering if she understood what I meant by an ‘earth closet’. We are on the second floor: how can anyone have such a thing between the first and second floors of their house? Nevertheless, I follow her directions and find the door to which she referred. Inside is a small room which has a single large white bowl with a small amount of water in it. It has another metal cistern above it connected by a pipe, with a chain hanging down. I am confused. Is this where she washes? I can see that by pulling the cord, one can fill the lower cistern – but I don’t want to go where she and others might wash their faces.
I see the roll of paper. Does this serve the same function as the pile of papers at Father Harington’s earth closet? Or is this for drying your face?
I decide to hang on and urinate in the gardens outside after I leave.
She is sipping her tea and reading the newspaper when I return. ‘They’ve started bombing again. Eastbourne and Fulham were hit yesterday.’
I say nothing.
‘I don’t know if it’s madness or cruelty, or both, this idea of blitzing places,’ she mutters. ‘Why do people fight when they have so much to gain from peace?’
‘Because people need a common enemy. War is one of those things that bind us together. You could say that men need someone to oppose – otherwise we start fighting among ourselves.’
‘You men. It’s always you men.’
‘But if there were no men in England, the women would have to do what the men do.’
‘I don’t blame men generally. I blame those men who started this war in the first place. Like Hitler.’
‘I know nothing about this Hitler but I’ll hold you that he started this war in the belief that he was doing a service for his people, bringing them together and making them stronger. If that was not so, they’d not be fighting for him.’
I sip my tea. It has a mild and pleasing flavour, better than that I was served by Patience Mudge, but I cannot say that I think it better than the ale I used to drink every day in my own time. My eyes rest on the volumes on the floor. ‘What are all these here books?’
‘I told you. English literature. Poetry. The classics – Byron, Shelley, Keats. A few more modern writers – that one on top is Yeats. I have a couple of recent things too. It is good to keep abreast of what my contemporaries are publishing.’
I lift the topmost volume, and look at the incomprehensible words. The volume beneath it is bound in leather. Three gold letters appear on the front cover, smartly arranged as if chiselled carefully. I put the first book down and lift this other one: inside it is full of blue-coloured figures.
‘Is this in your hand?’
‘It is.’
‘These letters on the cover – what do they mean?’
‘C.R.B. They stand for Celia Rose Baring.’
‘Rose?’
‘It’s an old family name, on my mother’s side. Not sure where it comes from.’
‘What do you write about?’
‘I write poems.’
I hand the book to her. ‘Will you read them to me?’
She frowns at me. ‘No, they’re private.’
‘Please. Just one.’
She thinks for a moment. ‘Very well, I’ll read you one. And then I’m going to have a bath.’
At that moment an aeroplane flies over us, issuing that horrible low grinding tone. She pauses, seemingly holding her breath, and looks at me. The noise passes away. But still she does not say anything. She sits there waiting, listening, in fear.
She looks at her page. ‘This is called “Despite Everything”. I wrote it for my mother. Here goes.’
It is never truly dark. You can still see
something, if only a shadow of a tree
which spreads its twigs like torn lace
against the sky. Silence too is never
absolute. Even in the quietest night
you can still hear an owl or a train
beyond the trees; you can always hear
something stir on this side of the stars.
Take heart from this when you lie awake
and dream of what may never come to pass.
Not even the wind can blow utterly cold.
No one is ever forgotten. I think of you
and the great crescendo of another day
lifts its arms to pray that we in turn
might still have hope. So make a wish;
it will, in some small way, come true.
I am silent when she finishes. It is such a sad sweetness that fills my mind.
She is looking at me, expecting me to say something.
‘That is most touching. I am moved. You are a most skilful woman.’
‘Thank you. I’m hoping to publish it soon. I had an acceptance from an editor but he was not sure when it would appear – what with the current difficulties obtaining paper.’
Another aeroplane passes overhead, and I see her shudder again.
We are silent.
‘Now,’ she says, suddenly getting up. ‘I’m going to have a quick bath. There’s some bread and corned beef in the kitchen if you want to make yourself a sandwich. I’m sorry, I don’t have any butter. Rationing, you know.’ She goes over to a wooden box beside her bed. ‘I’ll leave you with the wireless for company. I won’t be long.
’
As she gathers up some robes and clothes, noises come from the box. It is a man’s voice. After she has left the room, I go over and pick it up. It has a tiny metal grating at the front, where the noise comes out, but it has no connection to anything else. It is as if a sort of magic powers it. The man’s voice tells me about new tactics being introduced in bombing German sites in France, and the positive effects they are having on the war effort. Next I hear about the development of operations in the Mediterranean. I hear the name ‘El Alamein’ a great deal, and other words that have no meaning to me, such as ‘tanks’, ‘Russians’ and ‘Stalingrad’. An aeroplane pilot has now flown over the Atlantic one hundred times. In India, a group of people called ‘the Japanese’ have started bombing Calcutta. As I listen I cannot help but think back to Father Harington’s great hope that the world would come closer together. It seems evident that the world has indeed drawn closer to one another – but only in order to fight.
The man speaking on the radio comes to the end of his speech and announces that there will now be some music.
The longer I stay here, the more likely it is that the bombs will destroy this young woman’s home. But I cannot leave without saying goodbye.
As the radio plays a lively tune I get up, and walk anxiously. There is a large looking glass on a chest in the corner of the room, in which I see my bandaged head. There are all manner of ointments and pastels on the surface, too many for me even to guess at their various purposes. I see books with paper covers that have pictures on the front. A small metal clock is beside her bed. A flower in a large pot with earth stands in the window. And then I wander over to look at the two dozen or so family portraits on the wall. Among them is a picture of an old man. He is reading a book by a window in a library, with a jar containing flowers next to him. His face is familiar. It is Father Edward Harington.
I hear the door open and feel Celia standing beside me. She is dressed in a grey woollen upper tunic and a black lower tunic, and drying her hair on a white towel.
‘What does that say?’ I ask her, pointing at some words beneath Father Harington’s picture.
She bends down and reads. ‘ “The man who has no knowledge of the past has no wisdom.” That’s my great-great-uncle.’
‘What happened to him?’
‘He was chancellor of the cathedral, and spent his days doing good works for the poor – that and attending the opening of every blessed railway line in the whole country.’
‘The Lord bless you, Father Harington.’
‘How do you know his name?’
‘He was a good man, if ever there was one,’ I say, looking at each of the pictures.
I spot an image of his sister. In fact, I see two: one of her with her brother as a younger woman and another when she is about seventy, holding a baby, with an infant standing beside her. ‘That’ll be where you get your spirit from,’ I say, pointing. ‘Mary Georgiana.’
‘John!’ she exclaims, drawing away from me. ‘How do you know them?’
I raise my hand in apology. ‘Oh, no, Mistress Celia! I do not want to worry you. I am sorry. Forgive me.’
‘How do you know them?’
There is fear in her face. I don’t know what to say.
‘Tell me.’
‘I met them. At their house.’
‘But that is impossible.’
‘I stayed at their house in Southernhay. This morning, when I woke up there, it was a ruin. Those crosses in the sky are to blame, I’ll warrant.’
Celia looks as if she is about to scream. But she says nothing.
‘Your great-great-uncle was very good to me.’ I look down at what I am wearing. ‘These are his clothes.’
‘It must be your knock on the head.’
‘It was not my fault, Mistress Celia. Father Harington told me not to drown myself in the river. He showed me his library and his books, and all the paintings in his house in Southernhay, including one with a horse and a rider making a great leap over a chasm . . .’
‘No! That is in my parents’ bedroom, in Cornwall.’
‘And I heard your great-grandmother play a piece of music by Mozart on an instrument they called a pianoforte. In Father Harington’s dressing room was a painting of a knight and a boy—’
‘Please, please stop. Just go. Now. I don’t know who you are or how you know all these things, but I don’t want to hear them.’
I look around the room. ‘He was a good man, Father Harington. I just wanted to say that.’
‘Leave now. Please.’
I walk to the door and glance back. This is not the way I wanted to part from this kind soul. Her head is down, not wanting to look at me. I hear the low rumble of another of the aeroplanes. I turn and go down the stairs as quickly as I can. I bow to Missus Harbottle, and struggle to let myself out of the door, as it is not clear to me how these new latches work. In the street, the aeroplane overhead makes a huge noise, and I glimpse it for a moment, flying over the houses towards the east.
I head in the direction of the centre of the city, not knowing where to go or what to do. The clouds are breaking here and there, allowing occasional shafts of light to fall on me. I recall that the weather was doing the same thing when I walked along this road all those years ago with William, when we last returned to Exeter. Just a little further from here was the burial pit. Houses now cover the place where so many people were laid to rest. And now it is time for my own death. The only question left is how it will actually happen. In what position will I die? Or will one of these thunderbolts from an aeroplane strike me, so that nothing is left of me at all?
I go into a garden down the street and relieve myself against a bush.
As I walk on, I curse myself. Ultimately, this moment is the result of all my decisions. Even scaring poor Celia like that was the consequence of a decision, all those years ago. And what now? I cannot walk back to the cathedral, and risk its destruction. Must I walk out into some distant field, where no one can be hurt, and wait for the end?
Several noisy wagons and carriages pass me by. To my surprise, one stops not far from me. A door opens, and Celia steps out. ‘John, I’m sorry,’ she says, walking towards me. ‘That was not fair of me, throwing you out like that. Especially with you having concussion and all. I know you’re delirious, and you’re not in control. I’d feel simply awful if something happened to you. I was just . . . I don’t know, scared.’
I do not know what to say.
She looks into my eyes, then glances back over her shoulder. ‘Ron and I are going to go to the cinema. Will you come with us?’
The driver of the self-moving carriage comes towards us. He is very tall, clean-shaven and has black hair. His clothes are very smart, a matching upper and lower tunic, with very shiny black shoes. He has one of the white tubes of pungent herbs burning in his mouth.
‘Ron,’ says Celia, ‘this is John Everyman. John, this is Ron, who is from New York but employed by the British government.’
Ron holds his hand out. I take it with my left hand and shake it. ‘Maybe you can tell me a thing or two about my folk in the old days,’ says Ron. ‘Family legend says that the Whites came from round these parts, back when the Mayflower was still afloat.’
I smile at him, not understanding a word.
‘We’re going to watch the Noel Coward film, In Which We Serve,’ says Celia. ‘Do you remember? We saw the posters earlier.’
‘Mistress Celia, there will be a bomb that falls on me today, that I know for certain. You must go and live a long and happy life, like Father Harington, and thus you must be nowhere near me when that bomb hits me.’
‘Mister Everyman,’ says Ron, ‘the Germans can’t afford to throw their planes away merely on having a poke at our morale. They’ll wait until after dark.’
‘You speak most strangely,’ I say. ‘Is that the usual manner of speaking in York these days?’
‘I speak strangely?’ says Ron, with a laugh. ‘Oh boy. Now I’ve heard
them all. New York, sir, is in the good old United States of America.’
‘Where the turkey fowl are from?’
‘Yes, sir. Every Thanksgiving there’s a turkey on the table. Why, do you like turkey?’
‘I don’t know. But I do know that I am going to die.’
Ron glances at Celia. ‘We are all going to die, John.’
‘But there is a difference. It’s going to happen to me today.’
‘Well, it’s your call, bud,’ says Ron. ‘I can give you a lift down to the Odeon in my car – and you don’t need to worry about the elevenpence entry – or you can go your own way. But we need to get moving now. The projectionist won’t wait for us. What is it to be?’
I look both ways up and down the road. I cannot hear any aeroplanes. I weigh up whether to trust their assurances that the Germans never attack in the daylight.
‘I’ll come,’ I say.
‘Bravo,’ says Celia. ‘You won’t regret it.’
We walk back to Ron’s carriage. He looks down the street, purposely drops his white tube of burning herbs, treads it into the road, and gets in. Leaning back over his chair, he opens the door at the back of the carriage for me. Celia sits in the front beside him.
The machine is noisy and very fast – faster than galloping on a horse. I close my eyes but the motion of the vehicle then makes me feel sick. I look at my hand grabbing the back of Celia’s seat and realise my knuckles are white. I relax my grip, telling myself that we will be at our destination soon.
Ron stops the machine near the bombed remains of Saint Sativola’s church and we walk through the desolation to the enormous building that towers over the neighbourhood. After queuing along with many other people, we enter. Ron pays for us and I follow him and Celia up some fabric-covered stairs to ‘Screen One’ as it is called. Inside are rows and rows of seats. If the bombs come for me here, they will destroy not only me and this picture house but also hundreds of lives.
‘Don’t look so worried,’ says Celia, as she sits between us. ‘If anything happens, the air-raid siren will sound. We’ll leave this place and go to the nearest shelter.’
All of the lights around Screen One go out and we are in darkness for a moment. A huge black-and-white picture appears on the white wall in front of us. It shows people in a street in amazing detail. And they are moving.
