Then Jury watched the scene dissolve and turned his feet in the direction of Ludgate Hill. Could one feel both elated and deflated simultaneously? Apparently one could, he told himself, ruefully. It was only minutes to Ludgate and then to the cramped little streets that hemmed in the construction site. He stood looking at the blank face of it for some moments before taking out Mickey’s picture of the Blue Last.
It showed a three-storied building, much like the houses around it, gabled, dormer-windowed and with a door painted darker than the rest of the structure. It was the Christmas four or five days before the bombs fell. The Christmas decorations-the strings of lights that ran across the edge of the roof and around the downstairs windows-struck Jury as awfully sad. In front of the pub stood a man, Francis Croft, and Oliver Tynedale’s daughter, Alexandra. They stood smiling and slightly blinded by the winter sunlight. In just a few days their lives, and the lives of all the families of whoever was unlucky enough to be in the pub-all would be horribly and irrevocably changed.
Alexandra Herrick, even in this faint and awkward likeness, could be seen to be beautiful, though you had to imagine her coloring, which Jury had no trouble doing. The baby would probably be beautiful also. Here, she was wrapped in a blanket. Then he looked at the one of the baby looking over Alexandra’s shoulder.
Jury studied the picture of Kitty Riordin holding her own baby, Erin, wearing a little cap also looking over her mother’s shoulder. How could what Mickey believed be possible? How could one child be substituted for another and no one know? If he himself had seen both children and then had been asked to identify one or the other-? He doubted if he could. But the mothers would know. That, of course, was Mickey’s point. If Kitty said the baby she had taken out in the stroller was Maisie Tynedale Herrick, who would contradict her? Who would want to? In Maisie’s case there was a grandfather, uncles, aunts-an entire roster of people who would want Maisie alive far more than they’d care if Erin was. It would take the most hardened cynic-this was war, after all-to pose such a devastating question to Kitty Riordin, a woman whose own child had very probably died inside the Blue Last, buried under the debris-no. Mickey was right to be suspicious; it could well have been, still could be, an imposture.
But the alternative was equally possible: Alexandra’s baby, Maisie, really was Maisie, and Mickey was wrong. Jury stood looking at the blank face of an office building before him, which served as a kind of screen on which he could project his thoughts.
London in the dreadful last months of 1940. He had heard people who’d been here then say that if you could hear that searing whistle, the bomb had already missed you and gone down somewhere else. In the spring of that year, people were calling it the phoney war. Men and women in their seventies now, talking about the blackouts, how you couldn’t go anywhere after dark because you couldn’t see. “Always stumbling over the goddamned sandbags, picking your way through the dark, in a block of terraced houses, going up a path and trying to open the wrong door.” One man said he almost welcomed a storm so people could navigate by lightning flashes. No light, no torches, no headlamps-the blackness was like a cave, “like wandering about in a bloody cave, it was.” Jury thought he heard his uncle’s voice saying this. It’s what he himself must have felt in the months after their own flat in the Fulham Road had taken a direct hit. Seeing his mum lying under a ton of rubble.
But had it happened? Had he been there? Was this the reason he hadn’t wanted to be forced back in time, was it that he had begun to question his own memory?
Despite his earlier thoughts about his cousin, he now had the urge to ring her in Newcastle, see what she remembered. Better yet, he would go there. Only, he warned himself, she would not treat memory kindly; she was likely to remember what would make him unhappy, what sad, and even embellish on the sadness of it.
For he knew, if he knew anything, it had been and would be sad.
Seven
Benny Keegan and his dog Sparky climbed the cement steps and crossed to the other side of the Embankment to get the bus to take them across Waterloo Bridge to the South Bank.
Benny made deliveries for several small merchants in Southwark. He knew he couldn’t compete with the swift, helmeted bicycle messengers, but then speed wasn’t everything (he’d told his prospective employers). “Sparky adds a bit of fun to your customers’ day.” Benny (and Sparky) had been hired by the five shops he’d solicited, three of them because Sparky did indeed put a bit of fun in the day. The other two, newsagent and butcher, had agreed to give him a try because Benny (and Sparky) worked cheap. That had been a year ago.
So there were Mr. Siptick, the newsagent; the butcher, Mr. Gyp; the two young men at Delphinium, the flower shop, who reminded Benny of flowers themselves, tall, thin, pastel-colored flowers; the greengrocer, Mr. Smith; and Miss Penforwarden, who owned the Moonraker Bookshop.
These five shops were all handily within a few blocks so that Benny could go from one to the other, making out a schedule for deliveries as he went. He would do this once in the morning and again in the afternoon, to see if any other deliveries had been added. He was very efficient and his way of handling his business worked quite smoothly.
He wouldn’t have exchanged his day of irregular work for a regular job for anything (not that he had the opportunity to, as he was only twelve).
During the time between deliveries, and there was always some time, he could stop and have a rest and a look around the shops he served. His favorite was the Moonraker. Waiting for Miss Penforwarden to make up her delivery orders, he could take down a book and read. Sparky would sit and not bother anything, not even the Moonraker’s cat, who tried everything in its power to get Sparky to chase it. Sparky didn’t. Benny did not know where Sparky had learned such discipline, unless he’d been part of a circus or magic act before Benny had found him that day, nosing through a dustbin. All Benny had ever taught Sparky was how to carry things in his mouth. Newspapers and magazines were easy. But Sparky could even be trusted by the Delphinium owners to carry flowers. To the cone of vibrantly pink paper wrapped around the flowers, they would attach a string handle by which Sparky could carry the bouquet remarkably ably. Sparky loved flowers. Whenever they stopped at Delphinium, Sparky would make a circuit of the wide, cool room, stopping to sniff each kind of flower, bunched in its tall metal holder. The bluebells were his favorite, even though they made him sneeze sometimes. The Delphinium owners would often give Benny, at the end of the day, whatever flowers they thought wouldn’t sit well overnight. They said for him to take them to his mum. Benny said he would and thanked them and went off.
He only wished he didn’t have to make up so many stories about his mum and her daily dealings. How she was really an actress, but had to do waitress work to make money until she got her big break. The trouble with making up a story was that you had to remember to stick with it and flesh it out with all kinds of detail, such as where his mum waited on tables. Lyon’s Corner House, oh that closed, did it? Well, I meant when it was still open. Right now she waits tables in the food hall at Harrods; no, I know they don’t have tables, just counter work, I mean. It was such a strain.
When there was time in the Moonraker, Benny would sit on the library ladder and read David Copperfield, his favorite book. It was because David was worse off than Benny that he liked it. Benny felt lucky there was no Mr. Murdstone in his own life to make him miserable. Of course, the other side of that was there was no Peggotty to help Benny over a misery, so maybe life evened itself out pretty much, the same terms for him and for David.
But it still made him sit there thinking, his chin in his cupped hand, elbow on knee, for long periods. Was it better to have no enemies, even if it meant no friends, or have both? This was not an easy question. Anyway, he really couldn’t say he had no friends for there were the people he lived with, and the people he delivered to, who were very friendly toward Benny and Sparky. As for his employers, it was only Mr. Siptick and Mr. Gyp who could stand in for Mr. Murdstone. Mr.
Siptick was forever going on about the things he did wrong and Mr. Gyp was always asking pointed questions about Benny’s mum (his dad being dead, which was true) and ending up with asking “You sure you got a mum, Benny Keegan?” -he’d ask with his wheezing kind of laughter-“or should I go call the Social?”
This froze Benny’s insides, not only for himself, but also for Sparky. And Sparky even took a couple of steps backward when Mr. Gyp mentioned the Social. But for all the icy fear that replaced the blood running through his veins, Benny was canny enough to keep his expression noncommittal when he answered, “Well, you could do, but when they came to the house to take me away, Mum, she’d be pretty mad and I wouldn’t work here no more. Anymore,” he’d corrected himself. A lot of reading in the Moonraker had vastly improved his speech. The thing was, Mr. Siptick and Mr. Gyp, neither of them wanted to lose Benny, for Benny worked for much less-and did a better job-than anyone else they could have found.
This morning Mr. Siptick, wearing his same old green jacket with his name, SIPTICK, on the pocket, rolled up a copy of Gardener’s World and handed it to Benny. “Just you mind that mutt don’t slobber all over it.” Mr. Siptick said this every day.
“His name’s Sparky and did anyone ever complain about slobbering?”
Benny also answered this way every day. Sparky could carry two papers at once, since Benny put them in a thin, brown bag to make it easier for him to keep them together.
Mr. Siptick waved a dismissive hand and settled down on his stool to count his money out for the day. “Well, go on, go on!”
“You forgot the Toblerone for old Mrs Ely.”
“For pity’s sake, boy, just pick one up, candy’s right in front of you!”
Benny took a Toblerone from one of the candy boxes lined up on a rack. “Okay, I’m off.”
Mr. Siptick made no answer.
On Monday morning, which this was, his usual deliveries were one, Daily Telegraph to the butcher, Mr. Gyp; two, sausages and racing form to Brian Ely; three, Telegraph, Times and Guardian to the boys at Delphinium (Benny thought they used all these papers to cut flowers over); four, Times to the Moonraker; and five, if Miss Penforwarden was sending books along, Benny’s favorite stop was a big house called Tynedale Lodge.
It was convenient to go next to the butcher’s for that way he could pick up the sausages for Brian Ely when he dropped off Mr. Gyp’s paper. Sparky always knew when they were going to Mr. Gyp’s for he seemed to droop. Sparky was some kind of terrier, Sealyham, maybe. Sparky looked just like Snowy, the white dog in Tin-Tin, with his oblong white-tufted face. Neither of them could stand Mr. Gyp. In his usual sharp-tongued way, he started complaining about lateness when Benny and Sparky were hardly in the door.
“I can’t help it if Mr. Siptick makes me late.”
“You just mind your tongue, Master Keegan. And that there dog, too. I don’t want him gettin’ his teeth into these sausages for the Elys.”
As if Sparky didn’t know better. Benny handed Sparky two more papers he’d been carrying under his arm, and he himself carried the sausage. He said the same thing and got the same reply.
“Well, I’m off.”
Nothing.
Brian Ely was a stocky man with a head like a bullet, which was close to his shoulders, so that he seemed to be perpetually shrugging. He wore loud suits with wide lapels.
“Ah! Sausages! Have these for our tea, we will. Paper’s here, Mum!” he shouted back over his shoulder. Benny couldn’t decipher the tremulous reply. He wondered why old Mrs. Ely didn’t die. She always seemed in the process, what with her lack of breath and always having to hang on to things-chair backs, stair rails, coatracks, people-to keep herself upright. She was worn down to nothing but a bag of bones. It was a wonder.
Brian Ely exclaimed over the racing form as if he didn’t get it nearly every morning. “The form! Good lad. He took the brown bag from Sparky’s mouth, removed the racing form. He shook it open. “What d’you like in the ninth at Doncaster?” He looked down at Sparky, who seemed to be thinking it over.
“See you, Mr. Ely. Oh, and here’s your mum’s Toblerone.” He handed that over and then raised his voice. “’Bye, Mrs. Ely!” he shouted. He wished he’d just gone ahead and left, for now he saw Mrs. Ely making her breathless way toward them from the rear parlor.
“C’m on, Ma, no need to exert yourself.”
There was a wooden rod all along the wall of the hallway, attached there just so old Mrs. Ely could hold herself up. “Just… wan’… pa…” she said, or tried to. The rest was lost in her gathering in enough breath even to get that across. She stopped, holding on with both hands and breathed asthmatically. Her face was bloodless, but that appeared to be its natural color. Benny wondered if she would drop dead there and then, but he supposed not, as she’d done this many times before. She was always falling down, too.
Brian Ely just shook his head and heaved a sigh as he refolded the racing form. He went a few paces down the hall to where his mum was gasping for breath, handed her the racing form and she then turned to make her breathless way back.
“Got no patience, has Mum. No, she’s got to have that form first thing and don’t even like me reading it first.”
Benny asked, “Why don’t I bring two, then? You could each have your own copy.”
Brian Ely laughed. “Oh, I thought of that. But she’d just think I was hiding something. Ever so suspicious. Well, she’s a good old mum fer all that. I’ll say it if I must-she can really pick ’em. Would ’ave made a good tout, she would.”
After the door closed on them, Benny just stood there until Sparky gave him a nudge. They both trotted on to the Moonraker.
It was four steps down, each step bearing a gold-painted moon in its different phases. Sybil Penforwarden had hired a painter to do that. Inside the walls were brownish-red brick. On two sides of the room were arched openings, forming what looked like four separate chambers filled with shelves of books.
The bell rasped at the opening of the door and brought Miss Penforwarden from the shadows of the back shelves into the shadows of the front ones. Benny looked around, then called, “ Morning, Miss Penforwarden.” The little shop was ill lit, but that was one of the reasons Benny liked it. There were dim wall sconces against the brick and an old metal shade hung from the ceiling, throwing a swooning kind of yellow light over the books. This light made his eyelids heavy. He always thought there was something stranded about the shop, something alien and other-worldly. Maybe it was just the name.
Miss Penforwarden came out from the rear of the shop, cheerful as ever. “Benny, I’m so glad you came round this morning. I’m getting up a parcel of books to go to the Lodge. Can you take them?”
Of course he could, as she well knew. Yet she always acted as if Benny’s appearances here were a stroke of wonderful luck, something that happened erratically, even though he’d been coming for a year like clockwork. She liked to allude to his “larger” life, as if there were important things going on in it and the Moonraker was merely a blip on the screen.
“You just find a seat and I’ll be back in two shakes.”
“Okay,” he said. She’d be back in many more shakes than just two. He headed toward the shelf of books nearest the window, Sparky at his heels. He loved the room and the alcoves in which were floor lamps situated over easy chairs, in case a customer needed more light to have a quiet read. The chintz slipcovers were faded and threadbare, which made them all that much more comfortable and less apt to bother Miss Penforwarden, the bother of children’s sticky hands or dirty shoes. There was the children’s corner in the back that held a table and small chairs, stuffed animals, blocks, puzzles. Yet Benny had never seen a child back there; the few who came gravitated to the front room.
Miss Penforwarden had told Benny the room originally must have been a wine cellar for the house (now sectioned off into small flats). Benny said the only other purpose it could have served was as a dungeon. He liked this dungeon notion. He had never b
een to the Tower of London or any of the great houses and castles that might have harbored a dungeon, so dungeon life was fair game. What he really had to worry about more than being thrown in a dungeon was thinking up explanations of why he wasn’t in school. First, he considered illness, like a heart murmur he’d had since a baby, but then somebody had said working the way he did, wouldn’t that put more strain on a heart than just sitting in a schoolroom? Then he had said it was his asthma and had given a few voluntary wheezy coughs to demonstrate. But it was mostly Mr. Gyp who bothered him this way and he tried to ignore it.
Benny pulled down David Copperfield and looked for the place he’d marked with a toothpick. He didn’t think Miss Penforwarden would mind.
But his thoughts trailed across the page. He was thinking of that “larger” life Miss Penforwarden liked to refer to, the one he didn’t have. He wasn’t sure he even wanted one. For he liked routine, the sort of action that would go with a “smaller” life: the blue dawn over Waterloo Bridge, his morning tea and thick bread and making his deliveries. But a “larger” life was the kind of life he imagined for the inhabitants of Tynedale Lodge, though he couldn’t clothe it in any particular activity. Tennis, perhaps?
Dancing? Swordplay with masks on? A mysterious life. He was curious about it, but as he never went anywhere except for the garden and kitchen when he delivered things, he supposed he would never know. Certainly, it would include countless relations and friends. He hadn’t any relations and the nearest he had to friends were the people within his delivery route and his mates where he lived.
David Copperfield still open in his hands, he leaned his head against the other Dickens books and thought about his mum. She had liked her routines, too. Selfridges had been on Thursdays. Harrods, Monday; Harvey Nick’s, Tuesday. He had argued that people knew right away they were Irish, for that’s what so many of the Irishwomen did, keeping a baby with them or a child. And these people didn’t like the Irish. Begging mortified Benny. Whenever some passerby dropped coins in his upturned cap, Benny looked away. But at least his mother didn’t walk on the pavement holding his hand and stopping first one woman, then another. That’s what so many of them did. His mum would tell him, when he asked about their present awful state, that she was so sorry things had gone to the bad for them.
The Blue Last Page 4
