by Juliet West
In the office, Mr Specterman is peeling a pear with a knife. ‘Spitalfields Market,’ he says, lifting up the pear for us to inspect. The juice glistens in the gaslight. ‘Finest fruit in London. You like the rooms?’
‘Yes,’ says Daniel. ‘We’d like to take them, but we can’t move until March. First week in March.’
‘Let me see. That’s –’ his brow furrows as he turns to look at a calendar ‘– two weeks away.’ He taps the end of the knife on the desk. ‘As I like you, I’ll keep number twelve until March.’
‘Thank you,’ smiles Daniel.
I smile too, but the mention of ‘two weeks’ has stirred up a heap of dread. I can’t breathe for thinking of all the things I must do before March. Somehow I’ll have to explain it to the children, tell my mum I’m moving out, leave the cafe. But . . . I’m running away with myself. There’s still one more hurdle to overcome.
‘I’ll need details for your rent book,’ says Mr Specterman. ‘You have identification?’
Daniel pulls an envelope from his jacket and takes out his registration card and an insurance booklet. Mr Specterman opens up the registration card and nods.
‘Dry-dock worker, I see.’
‘Ship repairer,’ I say. ‘He ain’t a feather man.’
‘No, no, I’m sure. Keep away as long as you can, Mr Blake. The war is a terrible thing. I’ve lost two sons myself, one of them an officer.’ He takes a handkerchief from his pocket and blows his nose. ‘My wife will never get over it.’
Daniel and I speak at the same time, the hushed ‘I’m sorry’ that never sounds right, no matter how often you say the words.
‘But!’ Mr Specterman rallies, looks directly at me. ‘The business at hand. Mrs Blake, your documents, please?’
I open up my bag and push my hand inside, pat around as if I’m certain they’re in there somewhere. ‘Sorry, I don’t seem to have brought anything. Kids must have been in my bag . . .’ How I hate myself for the lie. For blaming the children.
‘I understand,’ he says, casting his eyes down and scribbling in a rent book. ‘We’ll manage without.’
30
On Sunday he walks the foot tunnel to Greenwich. He can see that Lady Tolland’s house is occupied as soon as he turns into the street. Bluish smoke drifts from the main chimney, and the upstairs curtains are pulled open.
He lets himself into the side gate as usual, walks up to the garden shed and feels in his pocket for the padlock key.
‘Daniel!’
Lady Tolland is waving at him from the terrace. A plain knitted shawl is wrapped around her shoulders, and she looks thinner, less fussy. It’s over a year since she left for Dorset, vowing to stay out of London until the end of the war. He wonders what has brought her back.
‘Daniel! A word, please.’
He strides up the garden path, touching his cap as he steps onto the terrace.
‘Lady Tolland. I hope you’re well?’
‘Yes, yes. And you?’ Her hand moves to her throat, a habit she has of fingering her gold brooch. But the brooch is not there and instead she twists a jet button.
‘Very well. The garden is ticking over. We had snow in January. You’ll see the box hedge . . .’
‘It looks sorry for itself, indeed. But the daffodils will bloom soon – they’ll cheer everything up. Come into the house, would you, Daniel. It’s so damp out here.’
He leaves his boots in the lean-to and follows her through the kitchen and into the drawing room at the front of the house. Lady Tolland picks up a letter from the writing table under the window.
‘A neighbour wrote to me in Dorset, touching on your . . . conduct. I may as well read this.’ She peers down at the letter and clears her throat. ‘“Your man Blake has been busy as ever in the garden. Although, I hope you won’t mind me mentioning, I have a strong suspicion that he may have brought a companion into the garden: a woman. Perhaps this is something you have sanctioned, but, if not, I thought it might be wise to bring this to your attention. In addition, last Sunday I happened to notice Blake gaining entry to your property from the lean-to, via a kitchen window.”’
She looks up from the letter, eyebrows raised.
There’s no choice. He’ll have to confess, and face the consequences. He opens his mouth to speak, but Lady Tolland cuts in.
‘Naturally I have checked the house thoroughly and everything seems to be in order. It was just the library where I sensed . . . activity. Disturbance of the dust on the bookshelves, nothing more.’ She pauses, twists the button at her throat, then takes a deep breath. ‘Daniel, what were you thinking?’
‘Our agreement, ma’am. Gardening in return for books? I borrow one or two now and again. I should have asked permission. I’m very sorry.’
‘And today? Which of my books did you intend to return today?’
He takes an Arnold volume from his jacket pocket and places it into her outstretched hand. He notices that her hands are trembling. His own hands are steady as ice.
‘It was only once, ma’am, that I brought the lady here. It was wrong of me, I know.’
‘And who is this woman?’
‘A friend, Lady Tolland. She’s fond of flowers. I wanted to show her the roses.’
‘Indeed?’ She looks towards the hallway where the telephone is fixed to the wall. Is she thinking of calling the police? His heartbeat quickens.
But then she turns to him, the frown lifting from her forehead. ‘You may continue in the garden, Daniel, but you must promise me, faithfully, that you will never bring anyone here again, or enter the house, without my permission. Really, after all these years, I thought we had such a good understanding.’
She stands, straight and satisfied, awaiting his grateful response.
‘It’s very good of you, Lady Tolland.’ He takes a deep breath, remembers how Esther had resented his Sunday trips to Greenwich, and never a shilling to show for it. He can’t do the same to Hannah. Perhaps, finally, it is time to leave. ‘But I’m afraid I shall have to move on in any case. My situation is changing. I’m needed at . . . at home.’
Her face flushes as she folds the letter back into the envelope.
‘I’m disappointed in you, Daniel. I thought perhaps you might show more loyalty. Especially in the circumstances.’
Is this a threat? he wonders. If you desert me, I will go to the police – is that what she’s saying?
‘Shall I finish the digging, or would you like me to leave now?’
Her skirts swish and she turns towards the window so that he cannot see her face. ‘That will be all,’ she says. ‘Goodbye.’
In the lean-to, he laces his boots and steps out onto the garden path. He pauses, wonders whether he should be more humble, grovel a little to make sure she doesn’t report him. But he decides not to turn back, to keep walking, and as he unlatches the side gate, he feels light-headed with a sense of liberation. Hannah is right. What’s wrong with the public library? They had passed a library in Whitechapel – spitting distance from Adler Street – a fine-looking building next to an art gallery. This time next Sunday they will have moved. Their own rooms, at last. And what of Lady Tolland’s garden? He’ll miss it, of course he will, but there are other gardens. They can take summer trips to Hyde Park. They can grow sunflowers on the landing.
31
This is my last day at the cafe. When Nettie leaves at three, I hang back and ask Mrs Stephens if I can have a word.
‘What is it, dear?’
We stand facing each other across the kitchen table.
‘I have to leave. Sorry it’s so sudden, but today’s my last day.’
‘Your last day? Working here, you mean?’
So she hasn’t guessed. Her eyesight must be worse than I thought. I hold my bag across my buttoned-up coat, hiding the bump. If I can get away with it, so much the better.
‘I’m moving to Whitechapel, you see. I’ve not been getting on so well with my sister. Been offered a job there . . . in a draper’s shop
. It came up just yesterday and I had to make a decision.’
‘Whitechapel? Of all places . . . Have you taken leave of your senses? What’s your old man say?’
‘He don’t know yet.’
‘Fine surprise for him when he gets home. Lovely, I’m sure. Why can’t you find somewhere more local? Seems an awful long way to go for a quarrel with your sister.’
‘The rent is cheap. Anyway, I like it. I’ve got a . . . good friend nearby.’
Mrs Stephens lets out a long breath between pursed lips, somewhere between a sigh and a whistle. She walks over to the till, opens the drawer and starts counting out coins.
‘I can’t pretend to understand you, really I can’t. Uprooting them kiddies too.’
My nerve is wavering. It’s more than I can stand, trying to sound so matter-of-fact when it breaks my heart to leave this place.
Mrs Stephens puts my wages on the table. ‘A bit more notice would’ve been nice,’ she says. ‘You’ll be wanting a reference, I suppose?’
‘Thank you.’
She tuts to herself – ‘Whitechapel!’ – as she reaches under the counter for notepaper. I stand at the table watching her scribble the reference, my bag held close.
I put the children to bed early that night. Jen goes up soon after, leaving me and Mum in the parlour. She’s in the armchair with her knitting on her lap. Her eyes are beginning to close, but she’s fighting sleep, jerking her head and grasping the knitting needles again.
‘You’re tired, Mum. I’ll help you make up the bed.’
‘What time is it?’
The clock on the mantelpiece hasn’t worked for months. Alec was the one who kept it ticking. I stare at the clock face anyway. The hands are still stuck at twenty-five to eight. The wedding photos on the wall nudge into the corner of my vision. George staring down at me.
‘Must be ten-ish.’
‘I’m not sleeping,’ says Mum. ‘All this worry.’
I put my mug of tea on the ground, rock forwards on the chair and press my hands between my knees.
‘Worry?’
‘I’ve tried to ignore it. Thought perhaps you’d get it sorted . . . but that frightens me too. Whatever’s going to happen, Hannah? You and this baby.’
So she knows. Of course she knows. The pressure in my head builds, a thin whine at first, and then the shriek, the sense of falling.
‘Mum—’
‘No excuses. No nothing. The whole thing makes me feel ill. I just want to know what you’re going to do.’
‘I’m going to have the baby.’
‘But you’ll give it up? George needn’t know if we’re careful.’
‘No. The father . . . he wants the baby too. We want to be together.’
Mum covers her hands with her face and hisses into her fingers: ‘Give me strength.’ I’ve never heard a sound like it before. Such pain in her voice, unbearable pain, and I’m the cause. ‘How can you be together? You’re married, Hannah. You’re a soldier’s wife. Why do you think George is over there fighting? He hasn’t done it for himself; he’s done it for you and the kids. To make you proud. And this is what he gets for his sacrifice.’
What? He never did it for me. He did it for Pandora Pavelle, for his own pride, for appearance’s sake.
‘I didn’t want him to join up. I begged him not to go. And if he hadn’t gone . . .’
‘So it’s his fault, then? Oh, I’ve heard everything now. Talk about twisting it.’ She gathers her knitting and winds the loose wool strangle-tight round the ball.
‘I’ve told Jen I’ll be out by the end of the month.’
‘Jen knows?’
I nod. ‘I’ve got a van coming Saturday. I’m sorry, Mum. If you met him . . .’
‘I’ve met him all right. It’s that fellow who came to the house the night Brunner’s went up. I’m right, aren’t I? Blake? Dor’s friend.’
‘Yes.’ A spark of hope. Mum is a good judge. ‘Yes, that’s him. He’s not a bad man – you could see that?’
‘He was polite enough, but I saw the way he looked at you. I sensed something was up. Never thought you’d be fool enough to fall for it. Alice and Teddy, have they met him?’
‘Not yet.’
‘So you’ll introduce them at the weekend . . . Children, meet your new daddy.’ Her voice cracks and tears spill over the red rims of her eyes. She takes a handkerchief from her sleeve. ‘Can’t you leave the kids here at least? I can’t lose them too . . .’
‘They’re staying with me. Jen won’t have them anyway.’
‘But what about George? He’ll want his children when he comes home. He adores those nippers. Have you told him?’
‘No. I’ll wait . . . until I know he’s coming home. There’s no point—’
‘No point upsetting him when he could be killed tomorrow? That would suit you just nicely, wouldn’t it? Not a thought for his people, of course, his old dad.’
‘He hasn’t seen his dad for years! His people don’t come into it.’
‘That’s true, because he’s only got you. That poor man. You’re right. It’s better he was blown to pieces.’
We are both crying now. I reach for Mum’s hand, but she pulls away.
‘I’ll make sure I’m out on Saturday. I’ll be visiting your father.’
‘And Dad might be coming home? There’ll be a spare room at least . . .’
‘You think there’s a silver lining? I’m telling you there won’t ever be one. When you leave, that’s the end of it. Don’t think you can come back when Mr Blake has had enough. You’ve cooked your goose now, girl. You’re on your own.’
‘Hear, hear.’ Jen is standing in the doorway, tightening the belt of her dressing gown. ‘And did she tell you the best of it? She wanted me to rear the little bastard. Pass it off as Alec’s!’
Mum gasps, then collects herself, dabs at her eyes again. ‘Go back to bed, Jen. We don’t need your stirring. There’s enough stirred up as it is.’
Jen slopes away and Mum walks over to the window. Pulling back the curtain, she looks into the black night, speaking quietly. ‘He was Dor’s feller too, weren’t he? When Meena finds out . . . what a kick in the teeth. Meena’s awfully fond of you. I didn’t think you were capable of this, honestly I didn’t. I brought you up proper. Granny took you to church. I suppose it’s something inherited . . . a weakness, like Beatrice . . .’
The windowpanes cloud with the warmth of Mum’s breath. Her shoulders seem so slight and so pitiful. I want to put my arms around her, but I know she doesn’t want me. All I can do is accept what’s due, sit on my chair and weep.
32
He sorts through his books, stacking them into two separate piles: books that he can live without and books that he is determined to keep. The second pile is bigger than the first. He sorts a second time, attempts to be more ruthless, resists the temptation to open a novel at the ribboned page, or to read a stanza from a favourite poem. Now the first pile is a precarious tower, stretching up towards the sloping eaves of his lodging room. Near the top is Lustra by Ezra Pound. He removes it and places it on the bed, next to the folded clothes and the African hanging.
Mr Specterman has asked for two weeks’ rent in advance. The books should fetch at least that amount, with perhaps some money over to buy necessaries when the baby arrives.
Daniel empties the contents of the tin trunk onto his bed. He stares at the letters and the photographs, the yellowed certificates and school reports, a Boy’s Own annual he has kept for twenty-odd years. He picks up one of the small blue envelopes and traces Hannah’s handwriting. Mr D. Blake, 279 E. India Dock Road. He smiles and ties the envelopes into a bundle. Soon there will be no need for letters and secret notes. He will miss them, no doubt. But to wake up next to Hannah each morning . . . that will be worth a thousand letters.
Carefully he loads the books into the emptied trunk, then drags it out onto the landing and bumps it down the stairs. On the pavement, he lifts the trunk onto one shoulder and
walks the short distance to Chrisp Street. It is Saturday morning and the roads are busy. A coalman’s cart trundles ahead of him, the wooden wheels slanting outwards as if they might buckle at any moment. Two nuns pass and he nods them good day as best he can with the weight of the trunk on his shoulder.
The dealer is pleased to see Daniel and he looks after him, as Daniel knew he would, on account of the custom he’s given him over the years. He leaves the stall with thirty shillings in his pocket.
He returns the empty trunk to his room and quickly repacks it, stuffing in the clothes and the African hanging and his remaining books. Everything else will go in his canvas bag. He checks his pocket watch. Better get a move on: he’s meeting Hannah and the children in Whitechapel at eleven. Lovely kids, they are, and they seemed to like him well enough when they met at the rec on Thursday. Of course, it helped that he’d stuffed his pockets with sweets. Little Alice is a scamp all right, but Hannah has the measure of her. They’ll rub along fine.
Sonia is still asleep. She likes a lie-in after a busy Friday night. He hasn’t told her he is leaving, hasn’t even told Mrs Browne. They’d only ask questions, badger him for a forwarding address, and he’d prefer not to discuss his situation. But he has a present for Sonia. From his trouser pocket he takes a piece of greaseproof paper and unwraps a small gob of moist putty. He divides it into two and rolls each section between thumb and forefinger, then pushes it into the two nail holes in the dividing wall. He smoothes over the putty with his thumb. A clean job of it. Good. He doesn’t want some dirty-minded sod watching her.
As he leaves, he takes the Ezra Pound from his jacket pocket and pushes the book through the gap under Sonia’s door. He thinks she’ll enjoy Lustra. She appreciates the avant-garde.
He takes the tram to Whitechapel, and as the shops and the offices flash past the window, an image of Mr Specterman hovers in his mind, his expression when he opened up Daniel’s registration card. What was it Mr Specterman had said? Dry-dock worker, I see. There was none of the disdain or the mockery that Daniel had come to expect, the suggestion that he was a shirker. There was just . . . resignation, and when Mr Specterman said that his sons had died, Daniel was swept by an unexpected wave of guilt. That the Specterman boys – Jewish boys – had died for England, it humbled him, somehow. Still, there was the urge to justify himself. He wanted to shout that he wasn’t afraid, that joining up would be the easiest thing in the world now, the easiest method of escape.
