by Liz Jensen
And Ed’s saying —Yes yes, the man’s right, he should be hanged. —By the neck, he adds, in case we’re confused. —Those Jap guards in the camp, they weren’t hardly human, some of them. I don’t care if they was only following orders. Anyone can say that, can’t they. Oldest trick in the book. And then what does Mr Jap do? Pretends it never happened. Won’t say sorry because it’d lose him his precious bloody face. All swept under the carpet.
See what I mean about the news? It gets people worked up, they shouldn’t show it in homes where people is old and fragile. It’s not just Ed who’s getting in a tiz neither. I’m getting these crawly thoughts again, cos I know there’s a connection between a certain this and a certain that, but I’m buggered if I know what it is. I am getting hungry and in need of a joke, but I can’t think of one and I am ready to explode with something, I am.
—Let bygones be bygones, Ed! He’s another person now, he ain’t a Nazi no more, he’s just a man. Probably grows potatoes in his back garden and if he wasn’t blind he’d probably watch TV same as the rest of us! Look at him, he’s got cancer for God’s sake. And he’s paid his dues, he’s forgotten what he did, we should forget it too. It’s more than fifty years ago; give the man a bloody break, won’t you?
My heart’s banging away like the clappers, feels it might crack my ribs. Don’t know why it matters so much but it blinking well does, I can tell you.
Don’t matter to old Ed though because he’s got other things on his mind, he’s busy getting an eyeful of Welsh nurse’s boobies and undoing his fly. He must’ve forgotten she slapped him.
—I’ve got a pair of tits too, I tell him, my heart slowing down again, feeling a bit softer towards him, now our Nazi argument’s done with and wuzzed to nothing like a burst balloon. —I’ll get them out for you if you want. Suck away like a big babby. I used to do all sorts.
But he’s turned his head away and he’s rummaging in his pants like there’s no tomorrow, the dirty old monkey, so I’m talking to the wall.
CHICAGO BOX
Hank’s all tanned, maybe it was sunny in the Abroad place. Mrs Manyon comes on all smarmy, she must fancy him.
—Oh you are looking well, Mr Taylor, she says. —Your mum’ll be ever so thrilled to see you back, she’s almost her own self again, I’m pleased to say, though at her age the memory doesn’t get any better.
He’s carrying this old cardboard box looks familiar. I used to have one like that in the attic way back, my Chicago box I called it. I can spot when something’s wrong, his face has gone all stiff, it’s fawn and sicky like a man with a bicycle on the doorstep with his cap off and a telegram in his hand saying perhaps you and your sister’d better sit down.
—She’s left you, hasn’t she, I go. —I always knew she would.
—What are you talking about?
—Her.
Don’t like saying her name, can’t get my lips round it.
—Karen?
—Well, who d’you think?
He does this noise like he wants to spit out a bad taste.
—Can’t you ever give her the benefit of the doubt? I came to ask you something, he says.
—That little boy’s not yours, you know. The bloke with the red car that’s got eyelids, you need look no further than him.
His face goes red and he looks down, does some breathing.
—I see you’ve made a full recovery, he mutters.
—They can do tests now, you know, DNA tests.
—Now there’s a thought, he goes, looking at me all funny peculiar.
He’s stroking my Chicago box like it’s a chicken he might have to slaughter, you put both hands around the neck, you twist and then you pull and it goes click. I killed a rabbit like that once too. Or wanted to. This DNA talk gives me this bad feeling but I can’t put my finger on why. Don’t even know what DNA is, except something in them detective dramas.
—I think we need to do some talking, Mum. About what’s in here. And he taps the box.
—That box is none of your beeswax, I say. —There’s nothing to talk about. Let sleeping dogs lie. All I’m saying is that Wife of yours, she’s been cheating on you since the day –
—Stop, Mum! Stop that now.
He’s getting up with my chicken-shaped Chicago box, which is mine, and my own private beeswax.
—Another time, Mum, when you’re feeling a bit more yourself.
—But this is myself, how much more myself can I be? I’m the same me I’ve always been, so you can like it or lump it, mate!
But he’s buggered off with my beeswax, doesn’t even want to stay and hear a joke. I was going to tell him the one about –
I was going to tell him a joke.
* * *
—You were asking for that, says Doris. She’s looking perkier than last time I saw her.
—I thought you was dead, missis, I go.
—There’s dead and dead, she smiles.
—Nice lad, your son, says Ed who’s come Zimmering up. He don’t say hello to Doris, just stares right through her like a stranger.
—And what about you? I ask him. —Are you alive or dead?
—Feel that and you’ll find out, says Ed, grabbing my hand and sticking it under the frame and between his legs. —You’re a right goer, aren’t you? he says, all wheezy. Old goat, he is.
—It takes one to know one, I tell him, having a bit of a feel.
Dead Doris makes a face.
Ed’s thing is hard as a carrot.
There were days he could spend the night and days he couldn’t. Some afternoons we’d go and watch them playing baseball on the plain, and then we’d meet the GI truck at Zetland Road and it’d take the men back to Tortworth. Those days, they were like tinned peaches and cream. Then all of a sudden Bobby was back on sick leave because he had jaundice, and Marje was hopping about like a blue-arsed fly, trying to get some leave from the factory to nurse him – which meant telling Mr Simpson she had something wrong with her ladies’ bits, she was bleeding like a stuck pig, and there was even clots –
—OK, OK, you can spare us the gory details, he goes. —Take two days off and bring a sick note.
Then spending all day in bed with Bobby, the two of them at it like a couple of rabbits.
—Fixed your ladies’ bits for you, has he? I go when she finally come downstairs. —Surprised you can still walk, missis.
But she laughed.
We all went to the flicks together to see Casablanca, me and Ron and Marje and Bobby. Bobby said he felt happier going out in the dark cos he didn’t look so yellow, being dark-haired and all he didn’t want to be mistaken for a stray spic or a Jew or a Jap or nothing, and Marje laughs like a hyena even though it’s not funny, what with our dad being a prisoner out in the Far East and still no news. We cried our eyes out at the flick of course and couldn’t get ‘As Time Goes By’ out of our stupid heads, and then we all went to the Coconut Club and me and Marje got sozzled on gin and its, and the men drank beer and Ron complained like always because it wasn’t cold, and the two of them started talking aeroplanes, so me and Marje got right narked cos we reckoned they loved them planes more than they loved us, they even gave them the names of women, the bomber ones anyway, and if our song hadn’t started up they’d have sat there talking planes all night. But it did, and me and Ron was back in each other’s arms and dancing.
I haven’t said thanks for that lovely weekend,
Those two days of heaven you helped me to spend,
The thrill of your kiss as you stepped off the train,
The smile in your eyes like the sun after rain . . .
That was our song, that was.
To mark the occasion we went out to dine, Remember the laughter, the music, the wine? The drive in the taxi when midnight had flown, Then breakfast next morning just we two alone . . .
Bucketloads of glamour, there was. He wasn’t an American like you see at Sea View in the afternoons, effing and blinding at each other on Jerry Springer. He was
n’t trailer trash. The two of us, we were quite an eyeful. People turned to look, and we liked it. We looked swell.
We all walked home together through the blackout, arm in arm, and it felt like we was a family again, and I know me and Marje were both thinking how good if Mum and Dad could see us, even though Mum’d say, You have put on too much lipstick, girls, it makes you look common, and Dad’d thrash our two bums for being a couple of no-good sluts.
It was me and Ron’s turn for the double bed so Marje and Bobby settled in downstairs on the settee, giggling and slapping and shrieking away, while me and Ron staggered upstairs ripping our clothes off as fast as we could, and soon the house was shaking with the four of us all at it like there was no tomorrow, because maybe there wasn’t no tomorrow. (Everyone did in the war, don’t let them tell you otherwise. If they tell you otherwise they’re lying.) Oh, we couldn’t keep our hands off each other, we were so full of life and he was so full of the need to grab. Even though I didn’t strictly know what was what back then, I was a quick learner and he soon knew the best ways of driving me nuts and showing me how to do the stuff that drove him nuts too, and often afterwards he’d say, You sure are becoming an expert, hon, I sure trained you well. Things I’d never’ve dreamed of, some of them. Again and again we did it, then again in the morning till I was sore and Marjorie knocks on the door and asks if we’d like a cuppa.
And then when we’ve made ourselves respectable with a sheet she comes in with a nice breakfast tray and all smiling, because of getting her oats with Bobby.
—We’re big girls now, she says. —Just be careful, that’s all. You look after my little sister, she tells Ron, and this look swishes between them.
—I sure will, he goes, and gives me a squeeze, and Marje sits on the end of the bed and pours the tea like we’re a family, but one that flirts.
—Make sure he always uses a French letter, she tells me after. —You don’t want a bun in the oven.
I’m hungry as usual. Could eat a horse. Could eat a bloody whale. The sea’s flat as ironing, and we’re going along the pier, me in the wheelchair, the opposite of when the baby was in the pram and me pushing and the men eyeing me up because I had a good figure with curves in all the right places and a man’s eye travels easy on a curve, up and down and around like it’s slippy as silk. And a man needs three things after a war. He needs a job, some beer and a woman. But sometimes just a woman’ll do.
—How about one of them deckchairs, I say. —You can hire them. Then we can both sit. Have an ice lolly! D’you fancy an ice lolly, Hank? Like he’s a little boy again.
—No, says Hank. —I do not fancy an ice lolly. I think it’s time we talked, Mum.
—The wind’s getting up.
There’s something nudging away at the back of my head, but I can’t put my finger on what’s bothering me, I just know I need to keep a sharp lookout for what comes next.
—Now, he goes.
—It’s embarrassing.
—Tell me anyway.
—Ed Mayberley made me feel his willy. Dirty old monkey.
He looks at me funny and we watch the gulls hopping about pecking at scattered chips and chicken nuggets. There’s one with its toes missing, just a stump for a foot. He’s walking all lopsided, trying to hop on just the one leg, but he needs to use the stump to balance.
—Look at that one. Keeps getting barged out of the way. He’s not long for this world, I expect. Got any new jokes for me then? I’ve got one, heard it from the porter. There’s this couple, they have a baby but there’s something wrong with it. The doctor takes them to a ward that’s full of babies that’s got stuff wrong with them. They stop at the first cot where there’s a baby with no legs and the couple says, Is that our baby? And the doc says, No, that’s not your baby. So they stop at the next cot and there’s a baby with no head and they say, Oh God, is that our baby? And the doc says, No, that is not your baby, your baby is worse, I am afraid. So they stop at the next cot and there is just an eyeball on the pillow. Oh no, they say, is that our baby? Yes, says the doctor, that is your baby. But I am afraid that it is blind.
Kiddo, he don’t laugh. That ain’t like him, he must’ve heard it before.
We watch the birds some more.
—How d’you know when a Barnsley girl’s had an orgasm? Eh? She drops her chips.
Still no laughing.
—Did you tell Mrs Manyon? he goes.
—About what?
—This dirty old man.
—No I ruddy well didn’t.
—Why not?
—She’d be jealous, wouldn’t she. She’d want some too. I said got any jokes? Your turn!
He mutters something under his breath.
—Look, Mum, I’m going to come straight out with it. What exactly happened in America? Why did we leave Chicago?
What’s he talking about? I’ve never been to Chicago in my life. He’s got this thing about America. It’s all in his head.
—I could eat something. I could eat a horse all of a sudden. How about we go to the baker’s, get a cake for tea?
—Tell me about you and my old man, goes Hank.
—Oh bloody hell, we’ve been through all this a thousand times.
—Let’s go through it again.
—I remember Food Facts on the radio. There was this one went, Dearly beloved brethren, is it not a sin to peel potatoes and throw away the skin? Makes me hungry just remembering it. Know what I used to dream about? Banana custard, steak-and-kidney pie, bubble and squeak. Used to dream about which plateful I’d eat first, if I had them all in front of me at the same time.
—I’m not talking about the war, he says.
—The skin feeds the pigs and the pigs feed us, dearly beloved brethren, is that not enough?
—I’m talking about after the war.
—We still had rationing. It was a struggle, you’ve no idea. Everyone wanted to start all over again, make everything new, rebuild the country, you know. Give it a makeover.
—Why didn’t you and my dad stay together, Mum? Why was I the only one? (Like a scratched record, he is.) —There’s stuff in that box –
—Cos we didn’t get on. Cos I wanted a boy and I got a boy. Didn’t want no girl.
—You wanted a boy? What about my dad? What did he want?
There’s this long silence, it stretches out to sea. On and on. Doris is looking at me with her new eyes.
—He didn’t want nothing. No girl, no boy, no nothing.
—But I thought –
—You thought wrong.
—That box of stuff –
—They gave Doris stargazers. Make sure it’s lilac when it’s my turn, if it’s the season. She was cremated, weren’t you, D?
I want her on my side now.
—Tell me. His voice all choked up. Doris is looking at me. —I’d like to know the truth, please, Mum. Whatever it is. There’s papers in that box –
Like a scratched record. I’m thinking: I could do with one of them Chelsea buns right now. Or a lardy-cake, or one of them Battenbergs. Or if we are talking savoury, a pork pie is what I’d go for, though it would be a toss-up between that and sausage and mash.
—Doris, she was the only one who could make sense of the Radio Times. There was even marzipan. Well, they called it that. It was made of beans, tasted of engine oil. I saw Churchill when he came to Bristol. I was in the crowd, and there he was, two yards away, with his bald head and his big old cigar. I cheered till I was blue in the face, waving this bunch of muddy onions I’d dug up, cos me and Marje, we had our little Victory Garden and I wanted to show the Prime Minister I was doing my bit. He was just getting back in his car when he saw me waving my onions, and our eyes met, and he winked. I swear it. Churchill winked at me cos of my Victory onions.
—Mum, goes Hank. —Stop it. Stop running your mouth and look at what I found here. Might ring a few more bells for you.
And he whips out this photo from his pocket and shoves it in my face.
Things go all quiet for a bit, because I am trying to remember what variety of onion it was, they had quite a kick to them.
—And you can tell me about Chicago too, while you’re at it. And what happened to Ron, and why he never stayed in touch – because thanks to what’s in here, I happen to know you’ve been feeding me a pack of lies from the word go. All this stuff about divorce – you never got divorced, Mum. From him or from anyone. It’s not a pleasant thing to discover, you know, that you’ve been lied to all your life about –
—About what? Them onions are bothering me, cos my memory’s a sieve.
—Everything! Everything! About who I am!
—I haven’t been lying!
—Don’t make it worse, Mum. Please. I just want the truth about who my real dad is. Or was. OK?
Oh blinking heck, he’s going to cry. His voice keeps wobbling about.
—Look, there’s stuff in that box I don’t understand, and I want to make sense of it. OK?
—None of your beeswax.
He rams the photo right in my face.
—What’s that about then?
It’s not my wedding photo, it’s another one, of a woman and a little brat in frilly clothes, but I can’t see a blasted thing without my glasses. So too bad. I shut my eyes to stop the water, them onions don’t half make you cry.
—Mum, he goes, more gently.
—None of your beeswax, I say, my eyes still shut tight and now big sobs hopping up into my throat. He hands me a Kleenex and I blow and my tummy starts making gutter noises that mingle in with the seagulls.
There ain’t much dignity to it.
He loved talking about beating the six kinds of crap out of the fuckin’ Luftwaffe. He was forever on about them planes of his, he admired them probably the same way he admired my tits, as in, he could spend hours in their company, and never get bored. He loved flying, he loved them blue skies smiling at him. I got to know all about P-51 Mustangs, Spitfires, Hurricanes, Me-109s, and FW190s. About other pilots who saved his ass, and asses he’d saved in dog-fights and bluff manoeuvres. He called the German planes pirates.
