‘That you, Dot?’ Joan called from the back room. ‘Howdja get on, love? I was getting a bit worried. Your dad’s gone up already, so keep it down. You’re later than I thought you might be. D’yfancy a cuppa? Dee’s coloured you in a picture of a bowl of fruit, it’s on your bed. Have you eaten? You weren’t with him the whole time, were you, love? Did you meet up with Barb?’
Dot breathed deeply, trying to calm her pulse. She touched her fingers to her mouth and pushed at the slight swell of her lower lip. It was as if she could still feel the warmth where his beautiful mouth had touched hers. Her mother could not have guessed that in the preceding five minutes her daughter and the universe in which she existed had been altered. Joan was speaking, but it was a background hum, the details of which Dot could not decipher. Her head was filled with the lilting lyrics My lonely days are over/And life is like a song and imprinted behind her eyelids was the image of his face, his liquid brown eyes, his perfect teeth and that sweet, gentle kiss.
3
Two days later, Dot let the fire-door slam behind her and stepped onto the busy West End pavement. She had only done a half day, but it was enough, considering how little sleep she was getting. The last couple of nights she had fallen onto her feather mattress physically exhausted. But her mind surfed on a sea of ‘maybes’ and her body twitched and twisted until the early hours, which made sleep impossible. There was one reason for these distractions – Sol. Sol.
She looped the lime-green chiffon scarf about her neck and tied it into a large bow, enough to lift her drab, mud-coloured mac and American Tan tights.
‘I’ve been thinking about you.’
‘What?’
She turned to face the voice, the same voice that had disturbed her sleep and haunted her dreams ever since she first heard it. Her heart thudded and soared, not with shock but excitement. She wanted to throw her arms around his neck with relief. At last/My love has come along…
Over the last couple of days, Dot had felt a constant, overwhelming desire to be in his company; any situation or chore that kept them apart was simply a waste of her time. She wished the tone of her reply hadn’t been quite so sharp. Of course she had heard and understood him the first time, but she needed to hear the words again. Her imagination was so vivid when it came to Sol, she needed to reassure herself that he was real, needed to seek out any hint that he might feel the same.
‘I said, I’ve been thinking about you. In fact I’ve been thinking about you constantly since we met. I can’t eat – which as anyone that knows me would tell you, is most unusual – and I can’t sleep and it’s all your fault.’
‘Is that so?’ Dot ran her tongue over her teeth, checking for any cerise lipstick that might have adhered there.
‘Yep. And to tell you the truth, Lady Clover, it’s proving to be a bit of a distraction. I’m finding it hard to concentrate on anything: I can’t work, my paperwork is full of errors, I don’t hear what is said to me because I am not thinking straight and I don’t know what to do. I’ve considered playing it cool, but I don’t know how I’m supposed to do that when you turn me to jelly, which is not cool at all. So I’ve decided the best option is to come clean, forget cool and be honest.’
‘I see. And how long ago is it exactly, since we met and your beauty sleep was disrupted?’
Sol looked at his watch. ‘Well I’m not exactly sure, but if I had to guess, I’d say seven days, seventeen hours, twelve minutes and eighteen seconds, no nineteen, no twenty—’
‘I get it, Sol, just over a week ago.’ She smiled.
‘Yes, just over a week. But, seriously, you have not left my head for one second since that moment. Not one.’
Dot felt her gut twist with excitement and happiness. Imagine! His head filled with her.
‘And what about you?’ he pushed, looking at his shoes, his voice quieter now. ‘Have you been thinking about me?’
Dot placed her small hands in her pockets and looked down at the pavement. It was easier not to make eye contact – anything rather than acknowledge the weight of his question. ‘Only when I’m awake.’
Her voice was quite small, but Sol heard the lie nonetheless. He grinned. ‘It’s as I thought, Clover, the genie is out of the bottle!’
‘What does that mean?’
He leant forward and she had to match his stance to hear his words, which were uttered in barely more than a whisper. ‘It means that sometimes the universe conspires and we are merely pawns that have no option but to go with the situation that forces far bigger than us have decreed. And it’s not a matter of what we want, but whether we have the strength or desire to fight against it.’
Dot sniffed. ‘Well, I understood about half of that, I think.’
Dot Simpson had witnessed her mum and dad amiably bumbling along, laughing through the hard times and ploughing on even though sometimes life must have felt like wading through treacle. She’d watched her mum prepare a thousand meals while her dad read a thousand newspaper stories. Their life was like a treadmill of chores and, for her mum, work, with little time or money for fun. Love was the glue that held them together; she would often find them dancing or kissing when they thought no one was looking. But the way Dot felt right now, like a light had been switched on in a dark room, and with her heart aching during the hours they spent apart, she doubted they had ever felt like that. The way she felt about Sol was exciting and confusing in equal measure.
‘Sol?’
‘Yes?’
‘I think it is what I want.’
Sol grinned and squeezed her hand. ‘How about that stroll then?’
Dot nodded and linked her arm through his.
* * *
Dot sat at the table in the back room and tried not to comment as Dee swung her little legs in rhythm, kicking Dot’s shins from the opposite chair. Dot pushed the boiled ham and pease pudding around her plate, loading up her fork, but not actually lifting any to her mouth.
‘You gonna eat that, Dot or just play with it?’
‘What?’
‘Yer dinner!’ snapped Joan. ‘You’ve been shoving it around the plate since you sat down. If you don’t want it, give it to your dad or wrap the ham up for tomorrow and I’ll make sandwiches.’
‘I’m not hungry.’
‘No, I gathered that, love. Not sickening for something are you?’
‘No, Mum. Just tired, I think.’
‘It’s all that gallivanting off with God knows who,’ Reg grumbled. ‘Coming in at all hours. You need a coupla early nights, girl.’
‘No, I’m all right, Dad. In fact, I’m enjoying meself for once and ten o’clock isn’t exactly all hours.’
‘Oh Gawd, here we go – violins, please – what a terrible life you’ve had! Cooped up here with us wicked parents. Enjoying yourself? I should be so bloody lucky!’ Reg forked his daughter’s unwanted pease pudding onto his plate.
Joan ignored her husband.
‘Ooh, I meant to say, I saw Sol, that black fella today, Dot.’
‘Oh?’ She tried to sound nonchalant, aware that a scarlet stain of embarrassment had crept along her neck and over her scalp.
‘Who’s Sol when he’s at home?’ Reg asked.
‘You know, the young darkie bloke that lives in the top flat with his parents; they’ve come over from God knows where. I told you, Reg, the ones we had the do for a few weeks back.’
Reg nodded and filled his mouth, which was now only an inch or so from the plate in front of him.
‘Anyways,’ Joan continued, ‘he looked proper smart, in a suit, shiny shoes and everything. He was getting into a flash car; don’t know where he was off.’
Dot drew a deep breath as she rehearsed the words inside her head. It had to be said sooner or later and it might as well be now. She decided to keep it casual. ‘He was off to meet me, actually…’
‘Oooh don’t be fooled,’ shouted Reg with his mouth full of food, before Dot had the chance to say her piece. ‘Whatever he was wearing, they are s
lippery customers and not to be trusted. Look at poor old Gloria Riley.’
‘Who’s Gloria Riley?’ He had her attention.
‘She was a local girl who came to a sticky end.’
‘What’s a sticky end?’ Dee wanted to know.
‘Eat your dinner.’ Joan pointed at Dee’s plate.
Reg leant towards Dot and spoke out of the side of his mouth, not wanting to give Dee any information that might pique her interest. ‘It was a couple of years ago now; she took up with a coloured fella that had come to work on the trains. Her family was horrified; her dad chucked her out, naturally. So she goes to this bloke she’s seeing with a little bag packed and her savings in her purse, ready to elope like he’d promised and guess what? When it came to it, he had to confess that he had a wife and kids back wherever he’d come from. She was desperate, the poor cow. But that’s what they’re like, it’s different for them. Probably in his village they have umpteen wives and no one blinks a bloody eyelid. Mind you, not sure why you’d want more than one wife, I just about cope with the one I’ve got! A man could get nagged to death!’
Dot rubbed at her temples to relieve the beginnings of a headache. She swallowed the words she had rehearsed.
Joan tutted at her husband. ‘This Sol’s nothing like that, he’s quite posh and as I say, he was wearing a suit and everything.’
‘You can’t tell what they’re like, love, no matter what they wear. And are you sure it was a suit, Joany? Thought he’d be more likely to be in a loin cloth and have a bloody bone through his nose!’ Reg laughed and a small glob of pease pudding slid from his lip and back onto the plate. Dee laughed at her funny dad. He wasn’t done. ‘And what do they actually eat, these people? I bet they’ve got you rustling up curried goat and Gawd knows what every day! Yuk, you wouldn’t catch me eating no foreign muck, the thought of it turns my bloody stomach!’
Dot pushed her plate into the middle of the table. ‘Actually, I don’t feel that well after all, think I might go and get some fresh air and then I’m meeting Barb. Thanks for tea, Mum. I’ll see you later.’
Dot couldn’t trust herself not to respond to her dad’s ignorant humour. She heard their conversation as she put on her lippy in the hall mirror.
‘What’sa matter with her?’
‘Hormones, I think, love.’ Joan knew this was the one topic guaranteed to shut him up.
‘Oh, Christ, a house full of women! It’s enough to drive a man round the bleeding bend!’
As Dot and Sol strolled through Hyde Park and alongside the Serpentine the next day her dad’s words echoed in her thoughts. She wasn’t sure how she would break the news to him now, but she had the idea that once he had met Sol and been bowled over by how brilliant he was, he might come round. She shook her head slightly, laughing at how she must have been confusing her dad with someone else. He won’t come round.
It was with confidence that Sol now reached for her hand and the two matched each other’s pace, in no hurry to arrive anywhere in particular. They stopped only for the occasional peck on the cheek and to share a bag of roasted chestnuts, bought from a vendor who had set up his brazier in a corner of the park.
They stopped at a bench and huddled together under the pretence of warding off the chill. ‘I love seeing all these new plants,’ Sol said. ‘I’m a bit of an amateur horticulturist at home. I find it amazing how you can take a tiny seed and with a little bit of care and attention can watch it grow into something so strong and beautiful. Many of the trees on our land are hundreds of years old; I find that incredible!’
Dot loved his enthusiasm, his interest, but she couldn’t help comparing his description with her own back yard at Ropemakers Fields. What would Sol make of the long, thin strip of bare concrete, littered with nothing more interesting than a few metal mop buckets, an ancient wheelbarrow with flat tyres and her dad’s bike?
‘The grass here is so fine and dense,’ Sol continued. ‘Our lawn at the Jasmine House is quite the opposite: sparse and spiky. I think the peahens would like roaming about on this all day. And your English flowers seem more fragile, and for that more beautiful. Like poppies… I bet you have some beautiful flowers in your garden, don’t you, Clover?’
‘Errr, not really much growing in it at the moment,’ she replied hurriedly. Dot thought about their back yard at Ropemakers Fields, a long thin strip with patched fencing on either side that denied the area sunlight for most of the day. A large slab of concrete littered with metal mop buckets, an old wheelbarrow with flat tyres and her dad’s bike. There was the old outside privy now used as a shed, full to bursting with all sorts of junk that was fit for the scrap heap. A couple of adventurous roses from the Rusalovas’ garden peeked over the back fence as though fascinated by the goings on in the Simpsons’ house. They withered and died quite quickly. Apart from the clutter, her mum pegging out the washing and her dad having the occasional fag in his vest, there wasn’t that much to see.
True, the back two thirds of their yard had once been a lawn, in her nan’s time, but that was before the Anderson shelter had taken priority. Now the only thing that bloomed was the bindweed that snaked over its rusting corrugated panels, the beautiful white and pale pink blooms reminding Dot of tiny gramophone speakers. One small flower bed in the top left corner had been planted with bulbs a few years ago, while her dad had still been able to wield a spade, but you were lucky to get one chrysanthemum a year out of them now. Dot realised with an uneasy stirring in her stomach that she would be embarrassed to show Sol their garden.
‘It’s cold!’ Sol patted his hands together and dipped his chin into his collar.
‘When do you think you’ll stop saying that?’
‘I don’t know, maybe when the sun comes out!’
Dot laughed. ‘Blimey, you might be saying it for a while then. This is a lovely day, I don’t know what you’re moaning about.’
Sol leapt up and sprinted off. She watched the grace with which he ran along the path. There was a hint in the March breeze of the warmth to come. Dot couldn’t wait to show him London in the summer; they could go for picnics and swim in the lido, it would be wonderful. She thought of her best summer frock hanging in the wardrobe and decided to give it a once-over with a damp sponge to make sure she was ready.
Sol had rounded the bend in the path and stood there catching his breath while he waited for her. She took her time.
‘Now aren’t you a sight for sore eyes!’ Sweeping Dot into his arms, Sol lifted her clean off the pavement. ‘I’ve missed you.’
‘Get a grip! You only saw me a few moments ago!’
‘Clover, I swear that the second I leave you, I long to have you back again, right by my side. Is it the same for you or am I mad?’
She smiled. ‘You are mad, but it’s the same for me. We must both be mad!’
‘How about we go to Paolo’s?’
‘Where else would we go?’ she teased.
‘It’s our place.’
‘Yes it is. If I’d known our first outing was going to have so much significance, I might of picked somewhere a bit flashier!’
‘It’s perfect. Plus I like to see how long we can hang around before he starts flicking switches very loudly and coughing about a tiring day. So, that’s the plan, Paolo’s for coffee and maybe some toast, what do you think?’
‘I think I’d love to!’ I think I love you…
The next morning, Dot hung her coat on the peg in the staff room and smiled at the colleagues and customers she passed on her way to her floor. She wondered if they’d seen a change in her over the last month; she certainly felt different. Seeking out the little jobs and fiddly chores in the Haberdashery to try and still her busy mind, she occupied herself with the winding of ribbon and logging of wool, attempting to order the thoughts that competed for space in her head. She imagined the conversation she must have with her dad, pictured him and Sol shaking hands over the threshold of Ropemakers Fields. But try as she might, it was a blur.
�
�I’m nipping out for a bit of fresh air and a fag, you coming?’
‘No, I’m all right, Barb. It’s pissing down and I don’t want to get me hair wet.’
‘Who are you, Jean bloody Shrimpton? What d’you mean you don’t want to get your hair wet? Since when have you been bothered about that?’
‘I just mean I don’t want to spend the afternoon looking like a frizzled drip and with me hair all stuck to me face.’
Barb studied her friend, who was now absorbed in ordering and sorting the packets of dress patterns into a neat row, patting the sides and tops until they were aligned.
‘You’ve been right off today. What’s up, you on the rag?’
Dot shook her head. ‘No. I’m just a bit tired.’
Barb chewed the inside of her cheek and watched her mate toil. ‘Oh my God! It’s that bloke, isn’t it? You don’t want to get your hair messed up cos you’re meeting him! I’m right, aren’t I?’
Dot sighed as she looked up. ‘All right! Yes, I admit I don’t want me hair messed up cos I’m meeting him for a coffee. Happy now?’
Barb folded her arms. ‘A bit. But I don’t know what you’re worried for, he’s got that horrible crinkly stuff on his head, he’s hardly going to worry if yours is a bit flatter than usual. At least you’ve got normal hair!’ Barb snorted her laughter.
Dot felt her heart leap inside her chest as her jaw clenched; she wasn’t used to feeling this way when addressing her mate. ‘His hair is normal for him, and probably his people think our hair is weird, did you ever think of that?’
‘No. But it don’t matter, does it, cos our hair is how hair’s supposed to be and so that’s normal and theirs is just… weird.’
‘How do you figure out that ours is normal and theirs isn’t?’
‘Don’t be daft, Dot. If theirs was normal hair, everyone’d be walking around with it, wouldn’t they?’
‘Well of course! And they do where he lives, you dozy cow!’
Barb pulled her mouth into a sideways slant and considered this. ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’
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