Chapter Nineteen
Art Franklin stood on the bridge looking down into the icy cold mass of the river Thames, and his thoughts were as dark as the swiftly flowing water beneath him. It had been over eighty years ago when the great stink of the sewage-filled river had finally penetrated even the Houses of Parliament, forcing MPs to take the link between disease and water contamination seriously and begin to do something about it, but how was the world going to clean up the stink of Hitler and his murdering Nazis? In the last months since war on Germany had been declared, the initial grim satisfaction and relief that the shilly-shallying was at last over and the die had been cast, had given way to the reality that the world was being changed for ever, and not for the best. Psychopaths like Hitler and Mussolini were in charge and forcing the pace, and weak-kneed fools like Chamberlain were no match for them. How Chamberlain was still Prime Minister he didn’t know; the country needed a man of war to take on those swines.
Lifting his head, he stared into the darkness that was hiding London. Since the blackout had come into play barely a chink of light escaped closed curtains and blinds, but he knew the buildings were there just the same. And so did the Germans, no doubt. Sooner or later this phoney war, as people had taken to calling it, was going to erupt. It was only a matter of time. But he was grateful for the normality of the last few months, he didn’t deny it, especially because once it became obvious that Britain wasn’t going to be subjected to the predicted immediate bombing and mayhem, entertainments of all kinds had boomed. Evidence of the nation’s ‘eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we die’ type of thinking, he supposed. And on the back of that he had planned a new tour for the band after the one to Holland had been so successful.
Art dug his hands deeper into the pockets of his overcoat; the night was freezing. It was the first of March today, but the bitterly cold winter they’d endured showed no signs of letting up just yet.
Yes, he thought, he’d been both surprised and glad that the recent tour around the country had gone ahead; not least because it had given him what he really craved – more quality time with Bonnie. Sooner or later the war would impact on Britain beyond the inconvenience of food rationing and fumbling your way through the streets after dark by the faint light of a little torch with two layers of newspaper between the bulb and the glass. A touring band was probably one of the most enclosed, intimate circles in the world, and he had made every minute count. He’d seen to it that he and Bonnie had sat together in the coach as they travelled the country, and stayed under the same roof at the various digs, and he had done so quite unashamedly, sensing that time was short. Not that it had done him any good.
He pulled the collar of his coat up and adjusted his muffler before beginning to walk. It was three o’clock in the morning but he’d been tramping the streets for hours, unable to sleep.
No, it hadn’t done him any good, beyond making him something of a laughing stock with the boys in the band. Why was it everyone else seemed to know how he felt about Bonnie, besides the lady in question? He scowled to himself. They’d sit for hours in the coach talking about everything under the sun, eat and drink together, see the occasional film and visit museums and art galleries when time permitted, but still she persisted in treating him like a benevolent, kindly uncle. They had got closer, there was no doubt about that, but it had been such a sweet torture at times that he’d spent half the nights on tour lying in a cold bath for a while before he could go to bed and trust that his body would let him sleep.
He ran his hand over his face with a groan. He felt as though he had been treading on eggshells for months and it was playing havoc with his equilibrium. If it hadn’t been for what she had endured in her past, he would have declared himself months ago, but he couldn’t risk spoiling the friendship they had – that’s what he’d thought. But enough was enough. He couldn’t go on like this any longer. And after this morning, he wouldn’t have to.
He and the boys in the band had known from the onset of the war that they would be called up sooner or later, and for a while now he’d thought that rather than waiting for the government to pick them off individually one by one, they’d all stand a better chance of remaining together as a band if they volunteered en masse. And the others agreed. So in a few hours they were meeting outside the local army recruitment office to offer themselves for king and country, in the hope that as they were musicians they would be able to play their music as well as fight if need be in this damn war.
But first he was going to see Bonnie and tell her he loved her. If she was shocked and repulsed, then at least he wouldn’t have to see her every day while he came to terms with it. But if there was a spark there, just the faintest spark, then absence might make the heart grow fonder. Certainly it might prompt her to see him as a man, rather than a cross between a benign Santa Claus figure and an androgynous elderly uncle.
A cat darted across the path in front of him, its green eyes glowing in the blackness as it briefly glanced his way. He stopped, disconcerted. Was a black cat a symbol of bad luck or good fortune? He was blowed if he could remember. And then he shook his head at himself. Whatever, it was merely superstition. What was the matter with him? This was what she had reduced him to.
It was six o’clock when he came across a little café that was just opening not far from Paddington station. He went in and had two cups of strong tea and a bacon sandwich to calm his nerves, the phrase ‘the condemned man ate a hearty breakfast’ coming to mind as he ate.
By the time he reached the house in Shouldham Street, the charcoal sky had streaks of pink and silver running into the retreating darkness and the morning smelt fresh and clean with the frost that had fallen during the night hours. It was going to be a beautiful day.
He paused on the doorstep of Fairview, running his hand over the stubble on his chin. He should have gone home and shaved, changed his clothes, spruced himself up a bit, especially in view of what he was going to say to her. Still, it was too late now. He was here. It had taken him months to find the courage for what he was about to do and he wasn’t going to risk losing it now. Of course, it didn’t help that he was going to have to face the dragon that guarded the castle and fair lady before he could speak to Bonnie.
As expected, it was Hilda who answered his knock on the door. Before he could say anything, she eyed him up and down. ‘You look rough.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Well, I’m just saying, that’s all.’
‘Of course you were.’ Dratted woman. ‘I need a word with Bonnie.’
‘She’s not down yet.’
There was no way he was going to go away and have to come back. Holding on to his patience by the skin of his teeth, he said, ‘Could you tell her I’m here, please?’
She looked at him for a moment more and he wouldn’t have been surprised if she had shut the door in his face. Instead she stepped back into the hall. ‘You’d better come through to the front room and I’ll make you a cup of tea when I’ve told her you’re waiting.’
It was said in the manner of a great concession and Art replied meekly, ‘Thank you, Mrs Nichols,’ as he followed her into the house.
Nothing had changed in Hilda’s front room since the day Bonnie had stepped into it when she had first arrived in London. The stiff white nets at the window in their starched folds, the even stiffer three-piece suite, and the wooden clock on the mantelpiece ticking the minutes away were all the same. Art sat down in a chair gingerly, feeling he had been given admittance to the holy of holies, which in a way he had.
Hilda looked at him perched on the edge of the armchair and her voice softened as she said, ‘You’ve been good to Bonnie, all things considered.’
It was on the tip of Art’s tongue to ask her what were the things she had considered, but he restrained himself. ‘It’s easy to be good to Bonnie, she’s a wonderful girl.’
‘Yes, she is.’ There was a pregnant pause before Hilda said, ‘You like her, don’t you?’
Her meaning was clear, and for a moment Art wondered if the whole world knew how he felt. It would seem so, damn it. ‘Is it so obvious?’
‘Not really.’ There was another pause. ‘I liked the way you dealt with that old witch of a grandmother of hers, and him, that dirty old man she was married to.’
Bonnie had told him she had confided in Hilda, but only in her. Art looked at the little woman in front of him. She’d said he had been good to Bonnie, but so had she. Bonnie had been such an innocent when she had arrived in London, and but for Hilda she might have been taken advantage of in all sorts of ways, especially after what had happened in the north-east and her being so young and beautiful. Clearing his throat, he said, ‘I would do anything for Bonnie, Mrs Nichols. Anything.’
Hilda stared at him for a good ten seconds, and she must have been satisfied with what she read in his face because she said shortly, ‘Call me Hilda. I’ll go and put the kettle on.’
She shut the door of the front room behind her, and after a moment Art sat back in his chair. How long had the shrewd old woman known he loved Bonnie? But it didn’t matter. Against all the odds this was an auspicious start and he wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. The last champion to his cause he would have expected was Bonnie’s landlady.
It was two or three minutes later when the door opened and he looked up, thinking it was Hilda. Instead Bonnie said, ‘What is it, Art? Is something wrong?’ as she walked into the room, her face anxious. ‘What are you doing here so early?’
He stood up, his heart threatening to jump out of his chest. ‘No, no, nothing’s wrong. Sorry, I should have said . . .’ He had never felt so nervous in his life. Facing the Nazis would be nothing compared to this.
‘Are you sick?’
‘No. Yes. What I mean is, only if you count heart sickness.’ Damn, he hadn’t meant to say that. He had been going to be so calm and inoffensive. He knew he could come across as pushy and forceful and he didn’t want to bully or intimidate her. Taking a deep breath, he said quietly, ‘I – I need to talk to you, Bonnie. The boys and I are joining up today as you know –’ and when she would have spoken, he held up his hand – ‘I know, I know you don’t agree, but for the reasons we’ve discussed I’m sure it’s the right thing to do. A musician’s biggest dread is not being allowed to perform and this way we’ve got a chance of keeping a working band together. But that’s not why I’m here. At least, not solely. What I mean is . . .’
He stared helplessly at her, and now it was Bonnie who said softly, ‘Sit down, Art.’ When he sat on the sofa, she joined him rather than taking a chair. ‘Are you worried you or one or more of the others might fail the medical?’ A couple of the band members were heavy smokers and drinkers and had coughs like a traction engine starting up. ‘Is that it?’ She hoped that did happen, in Art’s case at least. Since he’d begun to talk about joining up she had prayed every night he would fail his medical. Nothing serious, she’d qualified to the Almighty, just something like flat feet or poor eyesight. She knew it was wrong, with so many brave men going away to war and leaving wives and families, but she didn’t care.
Inwardly Art groaned. She really didn’t have any idea what he was going to say or how he felt about her. And a few years back if anyone had told him he would be in this ridiculous position, he would have laughed in their face. But he wasn’t laughing now. For a second he contemplated making some excuse or other and beating a hasty retreat while he still had some pride left, but only for a second. What did pride matter? She’d taken that, along with what was left of his ego, months ago.
‘Bonnie,’ he began, and then stood to his feet, pulling her up with him. He couldn’t do this sitting down. ‘This is nothing to do with medicals or the band or anything else except me and you. And I’m not expecting anything, not a thing because I know you don’t feel the same way, but I have to tell you how I feel before I join up.’
He was holding her elbows and he felt how she had begun to tremble although she made no effort to break free. Her eyes were wide but her face was still and he couldn’t read a thing from her expression.
He knew he was making a dog’s dinner of it; the carefully rehearsed speech he’d gone over and over in his mind had flown out the window. Casting caution to the wind, he said softly, ‘I love you, Bonnie. I’ve loved you from the first moment I set eyes on you when you were so determined you weren’t going to get in my car. I fought it at first, mainly because I didn’t believe in “for ever”, or because I didn’t want to believe in it, but that’s another story. I’m not going to make any excuses for the sort of man I was before I met you, but I’m not proud of it. All I can say is, I love you. Totally, absolutely, and definitely for ever. That’s it, that’s what I came to say.’
She still hadn’t moved. But for her trembling, he would have imagined she had turned to stone. Now he said, ‘I’ve frightened you. I’m sorry, that’s the last thing I wanted to do. I would rather die than cause you one moment of distress. But I had to tell you, even though I know—’
‘I love you too.’
It was the faintest of whispers and for a moment Art thought he had imagined it. Bending his head, he said, ‘What did you say?’
For an answer, Bonnie put her lips to his, wrapping her arms round his neck and pressing herself against him. ‘I love you,’ she murmured. ‘I love you, I love you, I love you.’ And then her words were smothered as he responded to her mouth, crushing her against his chest in an agony of wild joy mixed with disbelief.
It was a full five minutes later before Hilda, wise woman that she was, quietly opened the door, a tray with two cups of tea in her hand. For a moment she surveyed the couple sitting closely together on the sofa, so wrapped up in each other that they were oblivious to her presence. Then, just as silently, she closed the door again.
They were married in the middle of July and by then the phoney war was well and truly over. The Dutch and Belgians had fallen to the Nazis in May, and in June Allied forces had been evacuated from Dunkirk in a heroic operation by a huge fleet of destroyers, ferries, fishing vessels and even river cruisers. These had braved the German bombs and machine guns raking the Dunkirk beaches and harbour to save the British Expeditionary Force, along with vast numbers of French and Belgian troops, from total annihilation by a merciless enemy. The Nazi swastika was now flying from the Eiffel Tower and the Arc de Triomphe, and Mussolini had declared war on the Allies. Neville Chamberlain, totally discredited, had resigned against a backdrop of mounting military catastrophe in May, handing over control of the country to Winston Churchill, who had declared he had nothing to offer but blood, toil, tears and sweat in a rousing speech about ultimate victory for Britain.
But on a sunny July day in London at Marylebone register office, Bonnie and Art weren’t thinking of the recent developments in the war, dire though they were. This was their day, and Hitler and his horde of murdering Nazis had no place in it.
Art looked very dashing in his uniform, and Bonnie was just beautiful in a delicate lacy white dress that fell below the knee and a matching jacket. She had white orchids, specially ordered from a florist in the West End, entwined through her dark hair and she carried a bouquet of the sweet-smelling flowers tied with dusky pink ribbons. Enoch was giving her away, and as Bonnie entered the room on his arm to see Art waiting for her surrounded by all their friends, she thought she would burst with happiness.
Art turned as she approached and his heart was in his eyes, causing Hilda, Annie and Gladys, who were sitting in the front row, to reach for their handkerchiefs. Nelly and Thomas, Betty and her family along with Selina and Cyril, Verity and Larry, all the band members and their wives or girlfriends, and a whole host of other friends and colleagues were packed into the relatively small room. Even Julian Wood from Norman Mortimer, and Ralph Mercer with his wife Mary, were there. Art had been liberal in his invitations, saying that as he and Bonnie had no close family he wanted all their friends to share their happiness. After the ceremony everyo
ne was going back to Art’s nightclub where somehow – and Bonnie didn’t ask how – a spread had been laid on that defied ration books. She knew Art had bought in a crate or two of champagne, and as one bottle cost five pounds she didn’t like to think what he had spent thus far. But he was happy, in fact he was like an exuberant schoolboy, and so she hadn’t said one word about the expense.
They held hands tightly as they said their vows, made all the more poignant by the troubled times they lived in, and as the smiling registrar pronounced them husband and wife, Art whisked her off her feet and twirled her round and round to ribald cheers and shouts from the assembled throng.
The rest of the day passed in a blissful blur for Bonnie, but then at last they were on the train for a four-day honeymoon in a hotel in Brighton, confetti and rice littering the carriage from the enthusiastic send-off by their friends at the station. The other band members only had a twenty-four-hour leave but Art had five days, although that seemed pitifully short as Bonnie snuggled into his side on the journey.
‘Hey, penny for them.’ Art lifted her chin so she met his gaze. ‘You’ve gone quiet on me. Not regretting the fact that you’re Mrs Franklin already, are you?’ He kissed the tip of her nose, his eyes smiling.
‘I was just thinking how little time we’ve got before you have to be back at the base,’ she admitted, a catch in her voice.
‘I know, sweetheart.’ He kissed her again. ‘But you’re going to be busy in your own right making a name for yourself without the band. You won’t have time to brood while I’m gone, you’ll see, and once the war is over we’ll start proper married life and produce our own little crop of baby Franklins.’
A Winter Love Song Page 23
