Wake

by Anna Hope

  The girls file wearily back into the cloakroom, pull on cardigans, jumpers, and coats, stow dance shoes into bags. There’s never much chatter at this time of night.

  “How many?” says Di.

  “Twenty.” Hettie slumps down on to the wooden bench. Nine in the afternoon, eleven in the evening. Not bad for a Monday double shift. “What about you?”

  “Twenty-four.”

  Hettie shrugs. She hardly ever beats Di at this.

  “Day off tomorrow,” says Di.

  Hettie rouses the energy to nod, bending to unbuckle her dance shoes and rub her feet.

  Di is fastening her coat, wrapping her scarf around her neck. ““Come on, then. Walk down to the market with me?”

  “Not tonight.” Hettie shakes her head.

  “Het?” Di sits down beside her, her pale, pretty face puckered with concern. “You’re not cross with me are you?”

  Hettie looks up. How to explain? She feels a bit hollow, a bit empty with all of it. It’s since Saturday. It’s clear that Di is moving toward her future, while she is standing still. And who knows how long Di will even stay at the Palais for now?

  “No,” out her head. “I’m—just tired.”

  “Come round tomorrow?” Di gets to her feet. “We can have a look round the shops.”

  “All right.”

  “Bye, then.” Di pulls on her hat, and she and the other girls drift away, their voices echoing down the corridor and out into the night. Hettie stays there on the bench for a minute without moving, staring at the dusty tiles on the floor. She’s slow tonight. Whatever borrowed luster she may have held from Saturday has faded long ago.

  She is the last to leave, turning the lights off behind her and making her way down the darkened corridor to where Graham’s light illuminates a small patch of floor. She’s about to drag herself past without stopping, but remembers her pay and pops her head around the door of the hatch. Graham is there, back turned, sorting through some papers.

  “Night, Graham.”

  “Hettie!” He turns, smiling, to face her. “Thought I’d missed you! Here you go.” He rummages in his pocket, passing a lozenge through the hatch. “See you home,” he winks.

  The sight of it turns her stomach. “No, thanks.” She pushes it back over toward him. “You keep it. I couldn’t. Not tonight. Have you got my envelope, please?”

  He turns to the wooden pigeonholes in front of him. “Let’s have a see, Burns. Here we go.” He pulls it down and passes it across.

  “Thanks, Graham.”

  She fingers the slim brown envelope. There will be three ten-shilling notes inside. Half of them expected on the kitchen table in half an hour.

  “See you tomorrow, then.”

  “Hang on a sec.” He puts up a finger. “There was something else.”

  He rummages in his pocket and takes out a piece of paper, folded in half. “Came for you earlier on,” he says, pushing it through the hatch.

  She stares at the folded paper without touching it. Her first thought is danger. Or death. Of her father. The swiftness with which awful things strike.

  “Nice-sounding man,” he says with a wink.

  “Who?” She looks up at him.

  He shrugs, and she opens it.

  Thinking of blowing your cover.

  Blackmail imminent.

  Shall we meet to discuss terms?

  Dalton’s? Tuesday? Ten o’clock?

  “Who was it?” She leans toward him, hands shaking. “Did they come here?”

  Graham shakes his head. “Nah. Phoned it through, didn’t they.”

  She looks back down at the page.

  Thinking of blowing your cover.

  Di? Playing a joke?

  But Di didn’t see him. Di didn’t meet him. Di didn’t hear how he talked.

  Blackmail imminent.

  This is how he talked.

  “Very posh. Very polite. Asked if there was a Hettie there, and if I could pass this message on.” His face creases with worry. “Hope I haven’t upset you, love.”

  “No,” she says, shaking her head, smiling. “You didn’t upset me. Really. Not at all.” And she leans in and kisses him on his leathery, pipe-smelling cheek. “Thanks, Graham!”

  “Blimey,” he grins. “I’ll try and rustle up another of those for tomorrow, then!”

  “Night-night.”

  “Ta-ra, lovely.”

  Hettie almost skips down the corridor, through the door to the outside, to where the sky is high above her, and there are no clouds, only stars, scattered as though thrown from a generous hand.

  Thinking of blowing your cover.

  No one she knows talks like this.

  And it is there, in the night air; she can taste it: the future, come for her, finally, fizzing like sherbet on her tongue.

  . . . . . . . . . . .

  By the time Evelyn reaches home, she is frozen. She just about manages her key in the lock. The flat is silent and empty around her. She hauls herself up the stairs, disappointed. Doreen must be out again, with her man. They hardly see each other anymore. They just leave curt little messages—Char?? 10 shillings. Your share! Or Milk?? Two bottles?? Disappeared.

  She lies down on her bed, hands plunged in the pockets of her old coat, too tired to light a fire, too cold to move. For a long while she just stays there, the branches of the tree outside casting strange shadows across the ceiling, the wavering yellow of the streetlamp the only light in the room. listening to the sounds of the night as they rise and pass away: the chain in the bathroom of the flat next door; a couple walking quickly up the street, their voices low, until the woman laughs, sudden and bright; and then a motor cab, stopping only long enough to drop someone off, then turning in the street.

  She rolls on to her side and props her head on her hand. She sees Rowan Hind again, almost as though he is in the room with her: his small face, his jerking body. His hanging, useless arm.

  Captain Montfort.

  Was it really her brother he wanted to see?

  What could a private want with a captain, after all this time?

  She hauls herself over to the fireplace and rakes over the coals, blowing on her hands to warm them, then twists paper in swift, tight rolls and packs them into the grate. There’s a small stack of twigs by the scuttle, and she piles a few on top. As the fire catches, she takes out a cigarette and lights it, hugging her knees to her, staring into the flames.

  It came in a short, simple letter from his father. Because they were unmarried, she had been told nothing, since she wasn’t his next of kin.

  But Fraser had told him something of her and had left them her address in case of this. They were very sorry not to have met her. They were very sorry that this was the first time that they had spoken. Perhaps they might meet her one day?

  Two weeks. Two weeks in which she had believed the world still held him in it, in which she had been sending off letters, sitting in the stuffy office with the woman from Horsham, with the thought of him keeping her steady somehow as she moved about her life.

  How was that possible? Why had some instinct not stopped her in her tracks?

  So this is how it feels.

  It felt like nothing, though; it felt numb, as though she had performed some trick—had stepped out of herself and was looking at herself from outside. She read the letter again, trying to concentrate on every little detail.

  At first since there was no body—

  She looked up. Tried to think about this. No body.

  She looked back to the page.

  At first, since there was no body, there had seemed to be hope.

  But then two reports came from his company: He was seen, moving forward, and then a shell exploded right beside him. When the shell cleared he had disappeared.

  Disappeared? Wh
at did that even mean? How was it possible to disappear? She had the strangest compulsion to laugh. She started to, and then the laugh stopped. She waited for something to take its place, but nothing came.

  To walk forward.

  To disappear.

  To have no body anymore.

  One instant there, the next blown to the four winds.

  They were sorry, they wrote, that there was no body. That there would be no burial place. But in time, they hoped, there would be somewhere to go.

  They were so polite. As though it were their fault that their son had vanished from the face of the earth.

  She looked up at the things around her: the umbrella stand with the broken umbrella in it, the table that was scarred from when she and Doreen had carried it and bashed it on the doorway in the communal hall. Everything seemed like itself and not like itself at the same time; and she saw now, absolutely, what he had meant. Nothing here was real.

  She had to make herself real.

  The next day she went to the munitions factory and she asked for a job. They told her she could start on the shell casings on Monday. They gave her a uniform on the spot.

  Day 3

  . . . . . . . . . . . .

  Tuesday, November 9, 1920

  Outside, the rain lands quietly, the slurry of dead leaves breaking its fall. Ada lies awake, thinking about her son. About wherever he lies in France and whether it’s raining there.

  Jack stirs beside her, and she closes her eyes, pretending to sleep as he stands and scratches and yawns. She can hear every tiny movement, every little grunt and groan as he pulls on socks, buttons his flies, tightens and pops his braces. When he has gone she turns onto her back and stares up at the ceiling, watching as the light fills the room.

  Downstairs, Jack gathers himself for work. She hears his footsteps halt briefly, as though he is debating whether to call to wake her up. He doesn’t. The door bangs shut behind him.

  So, it’s easier for them not to speak to each other, then.

  It’s always easier not to speak.

  She gets out of bed and dresses, goes over to the wooden chest that stands at one end of the room, opens one of the drawers, and takes out the letter from beneath the pile of linen where she hid it last night. She slides it into the pocket of her cardigan. She will need it later; there is someone she needs to see.

  . . . . . . . . . . .

  The office telephone was installed a couple of years ago, but it is supposed to be for emergencies only and is hardly ever used. Evelyn goes over to it and picks up the receiver. Most of the morning it has been drizzling, but it is raining now in earnest, fat greasy streaks racing one another to the bottom of the glass. Outside the men hunker down under greatcoats and pieces of tarpaulin, their smoke a damp pall above their heads.

  “Grim,” says Robin, looking out.

  “Yes. Well.” They have been more awkward than ever with each other this morning, neither mentioning their exchange of last night. She puts the receiver to her ear and waits for the operator.

  “Hello, caller?”

  “Can you put me through to London 8142?”

  The telephone rings and rings, and she listens to its hollow tone. She can feel her breath against the receiver, her blood swooshing like a distant tide, then, after what seems like a long time, the phone is picked up.

  “Ed?”

  “Eves?” Her brother sounds confused, thick with sleep. “Sorry, I was—just a bit tied up.”

  “How are you?” Her voice sounds stilted; she’s no good at talking into these things.

  “Fine. Just a bit of a cold but—fine.”

  “I was wondering”—she taps her fingers on the pale wood of her desk—“if you’d like to meet for lunch?”

  To her right she hears Robin shift slightly in his seat.

  “Today?” Her brother sounds surprised.

  “Yes.” She tries to make her voice bright. “Why not?” She hears him light a cigarette, cough. His voice is stronger when he speaks again. “Fine. Whereabouts?”

  “I haven’t got long, just an hour, there’s a Lyons round the corner from the—”

  “A teashop?”

  She could have predicted this. “All right. What about that little French place, just between you and the park? La Fourchette. See you there? Ten past one?”

  “All right. See you there. Eves?”

  “Yes.”

  “You all right, old thing?”

  “Of course. I just—thought it would be nice.”

  “Right—well, see you then.”

  She puts the receiver back into its cradle and stands, her hand resting on the mouthpiece. Behind her Robin clears his throat. She looks over toward him. He gives her a halfhearted smile.

  “Lunch date?”

  “Oh no, it’s—” She feels herself color.

  “Sorry,” he puts up a hand. “Too curious.”

  “Just my brother.”

  Outside, a man taps on the window, his breath clouding before him, gesturing to the clock above Evelyn’s head. It is high time that she opened the door.

  . . . . . . . . . . .

  “But who is he?”

  They are sitting on Di’s bed. Despite the fact that it’s almost lunchtime, and the day is doing its best to make its presence felt behind the thin curtains, Di is still in her nightie, her black bob mussed from sleep, smoking, leaning forward, peering down at Hettie’s note.

  “I told you,” says Hettie. “I met him at Dalton’s. I danced with him there.”

  “How many dances?”

  “One.”

  “When?”

  “Early on.”

  “Where was I, then?” Di looks suspicious.

  “You were busy, with Humphrey.”

  “And where was Gus?”

  “At the bar.”

  Di’s eyes widen. She looks astonished that Hettie could be capable of such a thing. “But … why didn’t you tell me?” she says, in a small, wounded voice.

  “I don’t know.” Hettie shrugs. “I just—didn’t have the chance.”

  Di stands up, goes over to her chest of drawers, rummages around on top of it and brings over an old sardine can, balancing it on the yellow counterpane between them. “So … who is he, then?” she says again, tipping her ash into the remains of the oil.

  “I don’t know.”

  Di lets out her smoke in an incredulous little puff. “You don’t know?”

  “No.” Hettie pushes the piece of paper away from her with a sigh. “You’re right. I suppose I shouldn’t go.”

  “I didn’t say that, did I? Give it here. Let’s have a see.” Di picks it up and reads it haltingly. “ ‘Thinking of blowing your cover.’ ” She looks up, a delicate eyebrow raised. “But what does that even mean?”

  “He said …” Hettie plaits the tasseled edge of the bedspread, “that he thought I was an anarchist.”

  “An anarchist? What? Like in the papers? Like with the bombs?”

  “He was joking. Or—at least I think he was.”

  “Oh. Well.” Di hands the paper back to Hettie. “He sounds like a crackpot to me.”

  “He probably is.”

  “Is he handsome?”

  Hettie nods. “But sort of different.” She thinks of his face: his gray eyes, and then the way they cracked open when he smiled, as though it were all a mask, and someone else entirely was hiding underneath.

  “Different?” Di looks unimpressed. “Is he rich?”

  “I don’t know. Well he might be, but—”

  “But what?”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” It’s impossible to explain. Hettie looks back down at the piece of paper in her hands.

  Meet me at Dalton’s at ten.

  “I’m going to go.”

  “Whaaat?�
�

  “I liked him. I’m going to go.”

  “You might well have liked him …” says Di, eyes like plates, “but what if he’s one of those … perverts? Or a white slave trader?”

  Hettie smiles.

  “Or what if”—Di leans over the bed toward Hettie, speaking in a low voice—“he wants to take you to Limehouse and make you smoke opium?”

  They both saw Broken Blossoms—saw it three times and could have seen it more—over in the big cinema on the Broadway, sitting there among the sucked oranges and the cracked peanut shells, swooning while Lillian Gish fell in love with the Chinaman and smoked opium and was battered by her father and died.

  “He’s not going to take me to Limehouse,” says Hettie.

  “How do you know?”

  She reaches for Di’s cigarette. “I don’t.”

  I like to blow things up, too.

  “I’m going,” she says again, taking a deep, satisfying drag.

  “You’re mad!” Di squeals, shaking her head.

  She may be. She may be mad. But she feels suddenly, gloriously free.

  “Di?” she says.

  “What?”

  “Can I borrow something to wear?”

  Di frowns.

  “Please? I’ve only got my old dress. And it stinks.”

  “Why don’t you wash it, then?”

  “Di. Please?”

  Di looks disgruntled, her bottom lip thrust out in a pout. “I thought we were going to the pictures tonight. The Mark of Zorro’s on in town.”

  This is not usually how it works. Not this way around. Di is the smaller one, the prettier one, the one the future wants. Di is the one who knows how to carve out her life—the one things happen to. Hettie can see her, wrestling with the turn that things have taken, trying to be nice.

  “All right,” she says eventually, grudgingly. “What do you want to borrow, then?”

  But she knows. Hettie knows she knows. There is only one dress. She can see it, hanging up on the rail beside the bed, its dark beauty winking in the hazy, filtered morning light. Hettie can feel her need for it, twisting the pit of her stomach. “Can I … the black one?”