Before the Fall

by Juliet West

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says.

  ‘The burns were too severe, the sister said.’ I take a deep breath. If he can be calm, so can I. ‘She was very peaceful at the end. Family with her. Only this dinnertime, by all accounts. I just missed her.’ My voice cracks and I tip forward onto my knees. I shut my eyes and there are plumes of light, as if a fire is burning behind my eyelids.

  ‘Here, sit down for a moment.’

  He lifts me from the ground and steers me towards the wall, but I shrug him off and steady myself against the railings instead.

  ‘She didn’t deserve it.’ I meet his gaze then and he has the decency to cast his eyes down.

  ‘No.’ He takes off his cap and holds it solemnly in both hands. ‘Can I buy you a cup of tea? The shock . . .’

  ‘I’ve had a cup of tea.’

  ‘A drink, then, a brandy.’ He takes a watch from his pocket and frowns, distracted. ‘Pubs are shut, unless . . .’

  His eyes are fixed on me again and this time neither of us looks away. The wind is picking up, rattling the masts and rigging of the ships in the dock. Water laps and sighs. It will be dark by four.

  ‘It’s two minutes’ walk,’ he says. ‘My room. I have a bottle of something . . .’

  ‘Your room?’

  ‘A stone’s throw. Hannah . . . Mrs Loxwood, the colour of you. You’re shaking. You can’t walk all that way home.’

  I touch my face with my damp glove, as if that will put some colour back into my cheeks. A queer weightlessness unbalances my body, and I feel so tired. I should go to Dor’s house straight away, give my condolences to the family, but I know my legs won’t carry me.

  He offers his arm and I take it. He stops me from falling.

  We walk along the dock road, past All Saints Church and the gravestones leering in crooked rows. A tram passes, its dimmed front lamps straining at the dusk. I catch my reflection in a pawnshop window: hair fixed neatly at the back, pale face with dark, uncertain eyes. How can I be here, alive, when Dor is gone?

  ‘Just here,’ he says, reaching into his pocket. I stand close by him as he bends to put the key in the lock.

  He steps back to let me in. ‘After you.’

  The hallway floor is spread with strips of lino, and red wallpaper peels from the walls. The lamps are not yet lit. Near the stairs is an occasional table with a waste bin pushed underneath. Daniel places the tied-up handkerchief inside the bin. He looks awkward as I follow him up the stairs, his shoulders tense, and as his left hand moves along the wooden stair rail, I realize that he is trembling too.

  Daniel’s room is small, dark and square, just one tiny window, which faces out onto the road, and sloping eaves on the left side.

  ‘I wasn’t expecting a visitor,’ he says, picking up a cloth from the washstand and refolding it over the edge of the bowl.

  Under the eaves is a single bed. I think the linen may be unmade, but I can’t bring myself to look directly at it. I take off my damp gloves and stuff them into my pocket. I leave my hat on.

  ‘Let me light this. Brighten things up.’ He stoops to light a candle, and with the same taper he lights the paraffin stove. It can’t have been on for weeks, because at first there’s the smell of burning dust, masking the paraffin.

  ‘It’ll soon warm up. I’m sorry, there’s just one chair. Please . . .’

  I follow his eyes to the armchair on the other side of the window. There is a cushion of worn green velvet and a fancy antimacassar. A pair of muddy boots lie carelessly in front of the chair. It’s the sight of those unlaced boots, the intimacy of them, that brings me to my senses.

  ‘I won’t sit down, thank you. I really should be going.’ My mouth is so dry now it hurts to speak. ‘Coming here . . . I wasn’t thinking straight. It was the shock, as you say. My mind isn’t right—’

  ‘Please. Stay five minutes. Just a talk. A drink.’ He turns his back, quickly produces a bottle and a mug from a small cupboard and brandishes them in the air.

  ‘No, I shouldn’t be here. I should have gone straight round to Dor’s house, pay my respects. How they’ll get over this I don’t know. Those kids, they idolize her.’

  The thought of Kit without his big sister sends my head spinning again. Every scrap of strength drains from me and my legs fold and sink until I am down on the floorboards, sobbing. When Daniel sits beside me, I know I should move away, but instead I let him take my hand. My coat sleeve slips and he turns my arm to look at the cut on my wrist, strokes the skin around it. The touch of him is so beautiful and gentle it seems to steady my blood, help me breathe.

  ‘You’ve had a terrible shock.’ He stands and takes a clean handkerchief from the drawer in his washstand. ‘Here, have this. I’ll be back in a moment.’

  I dry my face, get up and sit in the chair. He appears with a glass. It’s sparkling clean, with a thin gold line round the rim.

  ‘A small drink,’ he says. ‘Just before you go.’

  He pours a measure of what looks like port wine and it’s only then that I notice his hands: the cuts on his knuckles, his fingernails split and ragged. He offers me the glass and splashes his own drink into the mug. From under the washstand he pulls a small wooden box, places it in front of the chair and sits down facing me.

  There is only the sigh of the stove to break the silence.

  ‘Did you rescue anyone at Silvertown?’ I ask finally.

  ‘It was a long night. I did what I could.’ He drains his wine and tops up my glass before pouring himself another. ‘They reckon sixty-odd dead.’

  ‘And now Dor.’

  ‘Yes.’

  He sounds quite calm again, almost matter-of-fact. And then it strikes me. It suits him, doesn’t it, to have her out of the way? Dor off the scene and me up in his room? Waiting for me at the hospital like that. He thought I’d be a soft touch and he was bloody well right.

  ‘Still, you couldn’t care less, Daniel, could you? Dor was nothing to you, like you said.’

  He straightens his spine, rests his mug on the trunk.

  ‘That’s not right,’ he says. ‘I liked her very much. Just not . . .’

  ‘But you weren’t even shocked when I told you she was gone. As if you were expecting it. Wishing her dead, were you, to get her off your back?’

  ‘I was expecting it, that’s the truth. I knew she couldn’t survive. But I didn’t wish it. Never.’

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘I’ve seen people burned. There was a fire once, in a neighbour’s house. Well, you can last a day or two, maybe a week, but there’s nothing anyone can do. Not with burns that bad.’

  Silence again, and my face is flaming. It’s too warm now, with my coat still on and the stove hissing away. Perhaps I should apologize, but he speaks first.

  ‘Friday night, I’m sorry if I offended you. I—’

  ‘Please don’t ever speak of it. It’s time I was going.’

  We both stand. He is so tall, his broad frame between me and the door. I think he might reach out to me, block my way.

  ‘I must see Dor’s people. Pay my respects.’

  ‘Of course.’

  He stands aside, then follows me down the stairs, several steps behind. I have to wait for him to unlock the front door. We are both breathing heavily. He opens the door wide. I thank him and brush past. He holds out his hand for me to shake, but I hurry off, tears clouding my eyes.

  I said I’d be back by five, but in fact it’s nearer seven. Jen is in the scullery when I let myself in the back door, busy as ever, sorting the washing ready for tomorrow. Everything’s filthy, with all the ash and soot that has blown in over the weekend. I thought she’d have the hump, stuck inside with all the chores, but she’s humming a tune and her face is softer than usual.

  ‘Kids are in the parlour with Mum,’ she says. ‘We saved you some bread.’ She nods at a plate with a tea towel over it, a scraping of marg still in the dish.

  ‘How’s Dor, then?’ she asks. ‘They let you stay long en
ough.’

  She doesn’t believe me when I tell her. The pillowcase in her hand flaps onto the flagstones, wafting up a chill from the floor. It’s colder in the scullery than it is outside.

  ‘Dead from a few burns?’ says Jen.

  ‘It was worse than we thought.’

  ‘You been to the house?’

  I nod. Yes, I went to the house. I’m not sure Mrs Flynn even registered I was there. She was sitting on the piano stool with Dora’s feather boa, winding it round and round her wrist. Every so often she’d stop and press the feathers to her face.

  ‘House is packed. All the family, the whole crowd from Ellesmere Street – you can imagine it.’

  ‘Oh, Hannah.’

  To my surprise Jen starts to cry. I don’t think I’ve seen her crying since she was a little girl. It’s peculiar to witness. For one thing, she didn’t even like Dor.

  ‘You’ll miss her terrible,’ says Jen. ‘To have a friend like that, you don’t know how lucky you’ve been. All this bad news, it’s too much. It’s not good for me.’ She places a hand on her stomach and her apron flattens against the broad curve of her belly. She must be four months gone. To think I hadn’t noticed.

  17

  The funeral mass is on Thursday. From the rustling and the coughs and the closeness of the air, I can tell the pews have filled up behind us. I don’t like to feel so many eyes watching me, especially here, with the strange rituals: the bells tinkling and the prayers that I can’t recite.

  The priest thinks we should be pleased that Dor is being raised up to heaven. He looks so satisfied, so untroubled, as he sprinkles holy water on her coffin. Dor’s voice rings in my head then, clear as if she’s standing next to me. ‘Forgive me, Father.’ And I can see her smile, a wicked light in her eyes.

  I don’t notice Ada until after the service, leaning against a pillar at the back of the church. She beckons me over. It’s strange to see her in a proper coat instead of rolled-up shirt sleeves, her hair brushed and almost neat. No gloves, though. Her hands are raw: cracked and scabbed so that you wince just to look at them.

  She touches my arm. ‘You all right?’

  I nod. ‘Sort of. What about the others?’

  ‘Edie’s injured. Her face is a mess, but she’s up and about. It’s just Dor from our shift.’ She looks around, lowers her voice. ‘Listen, we’re not going back to the house. The Steamship tomorrow night. We’ll give Dor a proper send-off.’

  I glance over to Mum and Jen. They’re watching me from the aisle, the two of them hanging back from the crowd shuffling towards the priest. Jen has a hankie pressed to her nose; the smell of incense has set off her sickness.

  Ada takes a toffee from her pocket and lodges it in the side of her mouth.

  ‘You’ll come, then?’ she says.

  ‘I’ll try.’

  They don’t mention Ada until we’re halfway down Ellesmere Street. I walk slightly ahead of them on the narrow pavement, slowing every few hundred yards while Jen blows her nose. We don’t say anything when we pass our old house, but I know we’re all thinking of Dad – Dad how he used to be, whistling on a ladder as he cleared out the guttering or polished up the windows.

  Mum offers occasional remarks on the funeral – how dignified Mrs Flynn was, how smart the boys looked, didn’t the priest go on?

  ‘No sign of Dor’s fellow, though,’ she says. ‘Did you see him, Hannah?’

  I shake my head. No, I didn’t see him: I made sure not to look.

  ‘Who?’ asks Jen.

  ‘Dor’s fellow. Daniel, wasn’t it? The one who called by Friday night.’

  ‘You’d think he’d turn up,’ sniffs Jen, as if she’d known about him all along.

  ‘You would really. And who was that woman you were chatting to, Hannah, in the church? Scruffy sort. Sucking on a sweet like she hadn’t a care.’

  ‘Ada? She works with Dora in the factory. There’s a group of them thick as thieves. They’re having a get-together tomorrow, to remember Dor. Asked me along.’

  ‘You’ll go?’

  ‘If you’ll mind the children.’

  ‘It’s at this Ada’s place, is it?’

  ‘Just round the corner. The Steamship.’

  I don’t have to turn round to know that Jen will be raising her eyebrows, and Mum’s lips will be thin and pinched.

  Plates of paste sandwiches and bottles of stout are crammed onto an oval table. The air is dim and sticky, people squashed elbow to elbow, drinks held close. I can feel myself breaking into a sweat, the chemise clinging to my skin, the cotton of my dyed black blouse prickling at the cuffs and neck. One of Dor’s uncles leans against the keys of the piano. When he moves, the high notes squash out like mangled birdsong through the chatter.

  Mum and I weave our way across the room to speak to Dor’s mum. She’s standing at the front window, half an eye on the street outside.

  ‘It was a lovely service, Meena,’ Mum says.

  ‘The Mass? Yes.’ Mrs Flynn has an odd, hopeful look in her eyes. Her lips are very red, as if she’s been at Dor’s petals. ‘Tell you the truth, I can’t take it all in. Keep thinking I’m going to wake up. I didn’t know half the crowd in the church. People from the factory, I suppose.’ She glances at Mum and me, then quickly turns her eyes back to the window.

  ‘No doubt,’ says Mum.

  ‘Counting their lucky stars, that factory lot. Why her? That’s what I can’t fathom. My lovely girl. Just when she was so happy, too. This Daniel she’d taken up with . . .’

  ‘He seemed ever so nice,’ says Mum.

  Mrs Flynn looks surprised. ‘You know him, Susan? Did you see him in the church today?’

  ‘No, it was just last Friday I met him, when you sent him round. It was kind of you. Hannah was so worried.’

  ‘Not me, dear. I never met the man.’

  Mum turns to me, starts to speak and then hesitates.

  ‘But . . . Oh, I’m mixing myself up,’ she says. ‘I’ll get us some more tea.’

  The uncle has turned towards the piano now and he’s picking out a tune with his right hand. Mrs Flynn sweeps over and tips the lid down. He jerks his hands away just in time. The room is silent for a second; then the conversation starts up again, hushed and faltering.

  Slowly people start to disappear. Dor’s house has never been so quiet.

  That evening I’ve a peculiar feeling that I’m expected somewhere. The date nags at me – Thursday, 25th January – until I remember the girl in the cornflower-blue gloves and the peace meeting poster. Railway Street, tonight. Dora and I might have been there. Will they go on with it, after Brunner’s? Of course. It will only make them more determined. They’ll be there now, the peace brigade, striking a blow for freedom and right, just like they promised. I wish I was with them.

  I unbutton my funeral blouse and drape it on the edge of the bed. On my wrists and under my arms there are dark blotches where the clothes dye has run. The facecloth is still damp from this morning, damp and freezing, but I rub at the dye until my skin smarts and the cut on my wrist starts to weep. How long before I wear the black blouse again? I imagine the army letter pushed through the front door, George’s name in the newspaper casualty lists. It occurs to me that George could have been killed a hundred times over while Dor was being laid to rest. I have no idea if my husband is alive or dead. It’s as if I’m caught in the centre of an unending bridge. On one side lies my old life; on the other side . . . what?

  The bell rings over the cafe door. It’s six-thirty and there’ll soon be a queue of men wanting their breakfast. Mrs Stephens drapes pastry over a pie dish, then wipes her hands on the damp tea towel.

  ‘I’ll go,’ she says, picking up the pad from the counter.

  ‘Because you do look peaky this morning, Hannah. I can send for Mr Stephens if you need a sit-down. He’s only up there doing the order books.’

  ‘I’ll be fine. Just tired. The funeral yesterday . . .’

  ‘Terrible business.’ She sha
kes her head and lifts the counter lid, turns sideways to fit through the gap.

  I scrape dried mud from a potato with the sharpest knife. A picture of Daniel’s unlaced boots edges into my mind. I scrape harder, replace the image with something safe: Alice in her hand-me-down shoes, jumping in hopscotch squares, her dusty knees with their scars and scabs.

  The day drags. Regulars come and go: Mr Travers, Mr Stooks, Vernon Cridge. Everyone but Mr Blake.

  Laughter echoes from the pubs on Hallsville Road, but the streets are quiet for a Friday. This time last week the sky over London blazed orange: I should be grateful for the black.

  An old boy and his wife walk ahead of me. They are slow, but I hold back so as not to overtake them. Arm in arm they negotiate the dark pavement, the man carrying a lamp in his right hand to pick out the uneven stones.

  It’s after eight. Ada and the girls will be wondering whether I’m coming. Just the creek to cross now, then a few hundred yards to the Steamship. The old couple turns off towards Plaistow and I am alone. Bedraggled grasses rise from the bank next to the iron bridge. I pick up a stone and throw it down the bank. Rats rustle and scurry. There’s a splash into the water: rat splash, a large one. My right foot on the bridge, both feet, and the walkway seems to sway and shift, dragging downwards, as if the bridge is falling. I grip the handrail, try to breathe. It’s you that’s falling, I tell myself, not the bridge. Daft old Hannah-Lou, daft old Hannah. Dad tickling my waist as he lifts me onto his shoulders.

  Why should I cross over? Why should I meet these women I hardly know? I don’t want Ada looking at me, holding up her latest letter, asking about George. The snide glances, making out like I’m lah-di-dah. It’s not a send-off for Dora. It’s Ada’s excuse for a drink-up. Mine’s a barley wine. What does she want me there for? They hadn’t known Dora two minutes. If only Dora had stuck with her job at the laundry, there wouldn’t be any of this. Everything is because of the war. Everything.

  The river stinks worse than ever. Might be a dead cat down there, rotting in the oil-slimed grass. There are footsteps approaching from the other side. I make a decision: run across fast as I can, so we don’t have to pass in the middle. Could be unlucky to meet in the middle, like crossing on the stairs. The man touches his hat – ‘Evening’ – but I dash by and don’t slow down until I reach the pub. Through the window I can see Ada laughing and there is Daisy too, a painted comb dangling from her hair.