by Phil Earle
Joseph heard what she was saying, and knew what it meant, but had no idea what to say.
‘I’m sorry,’ was all he could find.
‘No, my lad, I’m the one who should be sorry. Because it’s affected me every second since you’ve been here. But that’s not your fault,’ she added quickly. ‘For years now, I’ve buried all trace of them. At first, I kept photographs out on the walls, but it was too much. I couldn’t stop being sad at the fact they weren’t here any more, so I put them in the tin, out of sight.’
‘Did it help?’
‘Well I didn’t feel as sad. Just angry instead. Raging, most of the time. But at least using the tin meant I was in control of when I saw them. They weren’t following me as I walked round the house every day. But then... well, then you turned up.’
‘I’m sorry about that too.’
‘Well, you mustn’t be. It’s hardly your fault. I know you don’t want to hear that, but it’s true. I owed your grandmother so much. When Violet passed, I lost my mind. Saw things, said things that scared my family so much they put me in hospital. Which is where I met your grandmother. She was a nurse, my nurse. With all the soldiers coming home not just injured, but ill, screaming and crying and living with nightmares from the war, they drafted in nurses from all over the country to help cope. I don’t remember a lot of what I said to her, but she never abandoned me. She listened and talked, and though she never had any answers, she never walked away. She got me well again, more than any doctor did, and I made her a promise that I’d always help her back if she needed it. And that promise, well, it turned out to be you.’
‘You really were lucky, weren’t you?’ Joseph said sarcastically.
‘Well, you’ve hardly been easy,’ she said. ‘But that isn’t all your doing. It’s mine, too. When you first arrived, I wasn’t ready to be a parent again, to care about another child. It had been a long time since I’d opened the tin and allowed myself to think about the family I’ve lost.’
‘Didn’t help me being here, then?’
‘No.’ She smiled sadly. ‘Not at first. It hurt like hell, but it also made me realise how tired I was. How tiring it is to carry all that anger around every day. You know that feeling, don’t you?’
Joseph said nothing, though he felt it all.
‘So I’ve decided I’m not going to hide them away from now on. That’s why I’m telling you. Because I don’t want to be tired or angry any longer, and I don’t want you to be either. Do you hear me?’
Joseph nodded and sighed. ‘I don’t feel angry. Not right now. Just sad.’
‘Me too,’ she replied. ‘And maybe that’s all right. Maybe it’ll pass, if we both allow ourselves to feel it.’
Nothing was said for a minute. And Joseph was fine with that. It let him feel things, things other than just sadness and loss.
He felt hungry.
‘How long does it take to actually bake a cake?’ he asked.
‘Depends how good you are at taking orders,’ she replied. ‘You’ll find the eggs in the larder. And don’t be dropping them, do you hear? Cost me a king’s ransom, they did.’
He walked to the larder without saying a word. He had no need for an argument. And besides, he knew he wouldn’t win it anyway.
40
When the executioner came, Joseph noticed two things.
He was a weasel of a man wearing a grey suit. In fact, the suit was so ill-fitting that it would be fairer to say that the suit was wearing him. He had the look of a boy left alone to play in his father’s wardrobe.
The other thing Joseph noted, within minutes of the executioner and his associate arriving at the zoo gates, was that the suited man had clearly never met anyone like Mrs F before.
And this, more than anything, was to be his downfall.
When they arrived, Joseph had been feeding Adonis his evening meal through the bars while Mrs F watched from the bench. The ape was delighting in hurling carrot tops back through the bars, which brought a smile to her face. But her mood changed with the sound of rattling gates.
‘Yes?’ she said, in her regulation bark as she approached. But she knew what they were doing there.
The party, if you could call it that, was only two strong, the man-child in the giant’s suit, and another man in army attire, a rifle swung across his shoulder.
‘Mrs Farrelly?’ the weasel man enquired, making a meal of reading the name from a letter in his hand.
‘If you say so. Question is, who might you be? Because I’m guessing you’re not here to read the meters,’ she said with a nod to the soldier’s rifle.
The weasel laughed, revealing a set of teeth well on their way to an early death. If the rest of him was as unhealthy, then it was no surprise he was here doing this, rather than bearing arms abroad.
‘Well, quite. I wish it were only meters I was here for, Madam, but sadly that’s not the case.’
‘So, what is it, then? I’ve things to be doing.’
If the man was coming to do the unspeakable, then she wanted to hear it from his lips.
‘My name is Ingleford. From the council. I’m afraid it’s about the ongoing issue of the danger to the public residing at this address.’
‘Well, that’s a first,’ she said, turning to smile at Joseph. ‘I’ve never been called that before.’ She turned back to the man. ‘And besides, my house is twenty minutes that way.’
Another laugh, yet this one was fattened by nerves.
‘Yes, very good. But back to the matter in hand. You have, I’m sure, received various correspondences relating to the dangerous ape which attacked a boy some weeks hence.’
Joseph scrunched his eyes up. Hence?Had the man been reading the Old Testament before he came?
‘I’ve received them, yes.’
‘And digested them, also?’
‘On many occasions. Though I must say, they left me with a rather bitter aftertaste.’
This time, the man did not smile.
‘Well, I’m afraid that the deadline for finding alternative residence for the animal has passed. So we have no option but to make the area safe ourselves.’
And that, was that. The last word was everything Mrs F needed to respond.
‘SAFE? Are you really telling me that ending the life of an ape in a cage is going to make this city safe?’
‘Well, that is of cours—’
‘Because for a second there, it occurred to me that you might not have been awake for the past year. Or perhaps you’ve been so busy down your little hole, hunched over your typewriter, punching out ridiculous, petty letters, to notice that the REAL danger we face in this city is absolutely nothing to do with Adonis.’
‘Madam, the monkey attac—’
‘He’s an ape. A silverback,’ interrupted Joseph, which drew a proud nod of approval from Mrs F.
The man corrected himself, both his stance and his words.
‘The ape attacked a boy. And but for God’s will, could easily have ended his life.’
‘A boy who was trespassing in a dangerous place, a place that was also closed to the public at the time it happened. Now, Sir, if you look above the gates, you’ll see quite clearly the letters that spell out what place this is.’
Joseph hoped the man didn’t look at the sign. He looked officious enough to point out that the Z was still missing.
Regardless, Mrs F went on. ‘The boy chose, very unwisely, to ignore this and having climbed over the wall, went on to attack Joseph here, before simply walking too close to the ape’s enclosure.’
‘There should be signs to warn people. There should be railings to keep people at a safe distance.’
‘And there were. Both of those things. The signs are there still, you can see them from here. And as for railings, they were taken and melted for the war effort. Far as I know they were last spott
ed in France being fired at Nazis. That’s why the zoo’s not open. That’s why the gates are locked.’
‘Mrs Farrelly, please.’ The man sighed. ‘Might we come in? There’s little dignity in us conversing with a gate between us.’
To some individuals, this would’ve worked. But to Mrs F these things didn’t matter a jot.
‘Anything you have to say to me can be said from there. I’ll not be letting you in. Not by choice, not today nor any other day, for that matter.’
‘Madam, please, this isn’t something that is going to just go away. It is, in fact, a matter that could be resolved very... very quickly.’ He gestured behind him, not so much to the soldier, but to the rifle on his shoulder.
‘I doubt he’ll have much success shooting from there.’
‘Such range wouldn’t be a problem, I can assure you.’
‘Maybe not. But you can’t shoot what you can’t see.’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand.’
‘Then understand this. Pull that rifle on my animal, and any bullet will have to pass through me first.’
‘And me,’ chimed in Joseph, pushing his chest out.
‘Mrs Farrelly, please! There’s been too many deaths around here already.’
‘You’re absolutely right. And you’ll not be adding to them today.’
The man sighed theatrically. ‘Then I am afraid we will be back tomorrow. And if you refuse, again, to let us in, then we will have no option but to gain entry by force.’
‘I’m looking forward to it already,’ she answered, though she didn’t move. In fact, she made a point of blocking any semblance of a view to the cage that either man may have had: she and Joseph both. This left Ingleford to sigh in the boy’s direction, as if offering his condolences, before striding officiously away, his suit somehow looking even bigger in his defeat.
No one said a word until they disappeared from view.
‘I hope you know what you’re doing,’ Joseph said.
‘Not a clue,’ she replied.
And he watched her walk away, legs moving so slowly, and shoulders so rounded, that it appeared she carried not just him or Adonis, but the weight of the entire city on her back.
41
When they came, they came from nowhere, and they came with fury.
They hunted in packs, terrorising single houses first, then whole streets at a time, not moving on until every semblance of life had been snuffed out.
The first explosion blew Joseph from his bed, the second hitting by the time he rose from the floor: plaster fell from the ceiling, the walls groaned in terror.
The siren played as it always did, but it was an apology of a warning, a whisper eaten by a Nazi roar.
Joseph was afraid. Perhaps he’d become blasé with the bombs only ever landing in the distance, putting on a firework display without him ever feeling under any real threat. But this was different. It was loud, deafening. He could hear walls tumbling, people screaming, the incessant, looping howl of Tweedy from downstairs.
Pulling on his shorts and socks, he tore on to the landing, but there was no sign of Mrs F. Normally, they met at the top of the stairs as she forced shocks of hair inside her coarse woollen hat. But tonight, nothing: though her bedroom door was open, bed covers neat, unbothered.
He thundered down the stairs, two at a time, vaulting the final three. He did not need to open the kitchen door as another blast saw the walls shake and the door open onto a scene he had not expected.
The top of the kitchen table was covered in the contents of Mrs F’s tin. There was also a glass tumbler knocked onto its side, spilling red liquid across the documents. And there amongst the mess, was a sleeping Mrs F, head on the table, arms splayed either side of her, left hand gripping a scrunched-up document.
The only life in the room came from Tweedy, howling as he made his way through an obstacle course of chair legs, weaving and diving between them, stopping occasionally to nudge at his lifeless mistress.
For one awful instant, Joseph thought her dead, mistaking the spilled liquid for blood. But his fears were soon allayed. He dipped his head to hers, scraping the stained, sticky hair from her cheek, which woke something in her: a thick, sloppy cough that reeked of booze.
She wasn’t dead, just dead drunk.
Another bomb landed, closer, causing the lights to flicker and the walls to quiver. It didn’t put a dent in Mrs F’s slumber, but Joseph needed to, and quickly. Who knew how long it would be until the walls tumbled?
‘Mrs F?’ he said, in hushed tones, before wondering why. Did he think the Nazis were listening in? He shouted, louder, but to no avail. Her eyes remained shut. So he shook her, her shoulders heavy and lifeless.
‘Mrs F, wake up, come on. They’re coming. They’re COMING!’ What was she doing? Why get herself into such a state when the threat of a raid was always hanging over them? It wasn’t like her, that was for sure.
He tried to lift her head and prise her eyelids open, but if she could see him, then she was doing a damned good job of pretending otherwise.
Another bomb, closer again, edging Joseph towards blind panic.
In all the nights past, he’d never truly believed that a bomb would land on them, he was too cocky for that, and Mrs F had played her part in his naivety too. He thought Adolf wouldn’t dare flatten her house.
But finding her like this changed everything. No one was keeping guard, of the house, of him, of... the zoo.
The zoo!
The thought of the place jolted him upright. If she was drunk and unmovable, then who the hell was going to stand guard there? What if that bomb did finally fall on Adonis’s cage and set him free? There’d be a whole lot more than just Bert’s coat being ripped to shreds.
He had to wake her, sober her up and get her through the streets until she stood sentry, rifle in hand. He’d push her in a wheelbarrow if he had to, but first he must get her to her feet.
He tried to lever her up, before his mind was pulled elsewhere. The photos. He had to do something about them! So he threw them hurriedly back into the tin, safe from the bombs’ clutches. Then he pulled her upright, her head lolling backwards, unintelligible slurs shooting to the ceiling.
Joseph wasn’t listening. ‘Come on, Mrs F!’ he yelled into her ear. ‘We have to move. Please!’ But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t shift the weight of her, and she flatly refused to wake up.
So he went looking for help, out into the back yard, feet thundering towards the shelter, ripping the door open so quickly it threatened to come off in his hand.
‘Help me!’ he cried, spotting three silhouettes already crouched and cowering in the far corner.
‘What is it?’ replied Mrs Twyford.
‘Mrs F... she’s passed out and I can’t move her.’ He made no reference to the alcohol. He didn’t want the Twyfords to judge her any more than they already did.
Sylvie didn’t move, but her husband did – once he’d been shoved by his wife. Within seconds he and Joseph were back in the kitchen.
‘What the hell’s wrong with her?’ Mr Twyford asked.
‘Dunno. Found her like this, and I can’t move her.’
Fortunately, the man could, out the back door and through the yard, though he made quite a meal of it, the darkness of the shelter hiding his beetroot complexion, Joseph clutching Mrs F’s tin like it contained the Crown Jewels.
‘She’s not ill, Thomas,’ Mrs Twyford spat, leaning over to inspect her, while Tweedy tried to revive her with endless licks to the face, ‘she’s drunk!’
‘Could do with a tipple myself after that,’ said her husband, though he was so out of breath only Joseph heard him.
There was more tutting, and questions and judgements, but Joseph heard none of them. The bombs still rang in his ears, focusing his mind on getting Mrs F comfortable and safe. Falling p
laster inside the house was replaced by falling mud here, snuffing out the candles as quickly as they could light them.
Joseph reached for a blanket to keep her warm, but as he tucked her hand beneath it, he realised he had missed one final piece of paper, still scrunched inside her fist.
Whatever it was, she didn’t want to let go of it, her fingers locked, corpse-like. But if it was important, then Joseph needed to keep it safe with the rest of her memories. When her fingers finally opened under more pressure, the crumpled sheet slid into Joseph’s hand. It was old, but well-preserved, another official-looking item, so austere that it filled him with fear as soon as he saw it.
Printed in bold at the top were three words. Words he couldn’t read.
‘What does this say?’ he said, pointing at them as he thrust the paper under Mrs Twyford’s nose.
‘What?’ she replied, confused.
‘These words at the top here. What do they say? Quickly!’
‘Certificate of Death.’
Joseph felt sick. But who did it belong to?
‘Can you see a name on there? Can you read it to me?’ He didn’t want this woman’s help, far from it, but there was no time for his pride to get in the way.
Mrs Twyford read, eyes squinting in the poor light. ‘It says Violet. Violet Evelyn Farrelly. Died... fourteenth of March, nineteen-nineteen.’
Violet. Mrs F’s daughter. But why today? Why did Mrs F drink herself silly today?
‘What’s the date?’ Joseph asked suddenly.
‘I beg your pardon?’ came Mrs Twyford’s reply.
‘The date. Today’s date.’
‘The fourteenth of March.’
He felt his body sag. Today was the anniversary of Violet’s death. No wonder Mrs F had got herself into such a state, he thought. Especially as she’d dragged the whole thing up again so recently. He wanted to be angry with her for resorting to such extremes, but he couldn’t. After all, she hadn’t got angry. Just drunk. Joseph couldn’t help but feel responsible, because she’d opened up all those old wounds to help him. To make him see that he wasn’t alone in what he was going through.
