The unexpectedness of this was sufficient to prevent Rachel from destroying the entire meal. She looked at the half-empty bowl of potatoes in her hand. Then, after a long pause, she returned it to the table, voicing sullenly to Rowena, ‘You’d better share these out. I wouldn’t have you going hungry because of him – but don’t you ever, ever beg for charity again!’ With this dire warning she sailed off to the front parlour.
Rowena turned to a wet-eyed Becky, who asked softly, ‘Should we go after him?’
Her eldest sister said that it was best not to. ‘He probably wants to be by himself.’
‘Just as well he’s gone,’ grumbled Beany, eyeing the depleted table. Becky’s hackles rose as Rowena dipped the spoon in the bowl. ‘Don’t bother giving me any – give mine to the pig!’
* * *
Charlie was still running. He had burst from the yard, out of the lane and into the street. By order, since the first air raid, no gas lamps had been lighted. Only at the busiest road junction was an odd electric bulb allowed to burn. Charlie did not care; he was already blind with pain and anger. He did not know where the path was taking him, he just had to run. His feet hurtled him down the long, sloping terrace. The cold air abrazed his windpipe but he fought the discomfort. Only when the pavement began to incline did he slacken his pace and finally slowed to a walk, puffing and wheezing. He was through with trying to be nice to them – apart from Wena and Becky, none of them were worth the effort – especially her!
He walked on, crossed the road, made a couple of turns then eventually came to wander by the Ouse, which sparkled in the moonlight. He walked for quite a while, stooping to gather a handful of stones which he tossed pettishly at the water. In time, he came upon the murky figure of a boy who, as he drew close enough to see, looked about the same age as himself. He was sitting on the bank, head bent, fingers playing with a twig. As Charlie neared the boy looked up, but just as quickly reverted his eyes to the river. Charlie stopped nearby and looked at the water too, scuffing his shoes around a patch of gravel.
‘What are you doing?’ he asked finally.
The boy granted him a cursory glance, ‘Nowt,’ and swapped the twig for a handful of pebbles.
Another period of silence, then, ‘Do you ever get sick of women?’
‘I get sick of everybody,’ answered the boy, plopping pebbles into the river.
‘So do I,’ agreed Charlie, and came to sit beside the boy, huddling up against the cold.
‘Specially at school,’ added the boy. ‘What school d’you go to?’ Charlie said he didn’t go. The boy’s eyes quizzed him, then saw that he was probably too old for school. ‘Lucky bugger. I’ve got two years yet.’
‘I wish I could go,’ said Charlie. When the boy told him he was mad he explained, ‘You’d get bored if you were stuck at home all day.’
‘You’re joking!’ After a laugh, the boy looked confused. ‘How come you’re at home all day? How old are you?’ When Charlie said he was nearly fifteen the boy asked, ‘Can’t you get a job, then?’
‘I’ve never tried. She says I might have to get one soon though. She’s always moaning about having no money.’ When the other enquired who she was, he answered, ‘Mrs Hazelwood, the woman who looks after me.’
‘Haven’t you got any parents, then?’
‘I’ve got a father. He’s married to Mrs Hazelwood. My mother’s dead. Is your father in the Army?’
The boy’s expression altered and he looked away. ‘No, he’s got an important job here, on the railway.’
‘Soon as I’m old enough,’ vouched Charlie, ‘I’m going to join the Army and fight for my country.’
The boy didn’t appear to like Charlie’s intimation that his father must be a coward if he wasn’t fighting. ‘’Tisn’t your country though, is it?’
‘Yes it is. My father is British, that makes me British.’
‘You can’t be, you’re black. Anyway, I’m glad my father hasn’t gone,’ said the boy firmly. ‘I don’t want him to be killed.’
‘I don’t want mine to be killed either…’ Charlie leaned on his knees, looking miserable. ‘I wish he’d come back. I wonder how much longer it’ll go on?’
The boy shrugged, then said, ‘You don’t like this Mrs Hazelwood?’
‘It’s more a case of her not liking me…’ Then Charlie admitted, ‘No, I don’t like her, but I’ve no choice. I have to stay with her until Father Guillaume comes for me.’
The latter comment required an explanation. Charlie found himself telling this boy almost everything: the humiliation, the prejudice, the sadness… at his misty-eyed conclusion, he found a comforting hand on his arm.
‘I know how you feel,’ said the boy gently.
Inexplicably, Charlie’s anger surged at the meek, sympathetic face. ‘How could you know?’ He flicked his elbow so that the hand fell away.
The boy hesitated. Then he divulged, ‘My father’s not really on the railway… he’s in a detention camp. He’s German.’
Charlie turned to him and, before the boy looked away, saw the result of two and a half years of persecution in the blue eyes… almost the same amount of time that Charlie himself had suffered. The boy was about to go further, to open his soul as Charlie had done, knowing that here he would find understanding and friendship.
He was wrong. ‘You’re a bloody Hun!’ Charlie leapt for him, fingers grasping the boy’s neck, pushing him backwards in order to straddle him. ‘I’ve been sitting here talking to the enemy!’
‘No, I’m English!’ The boy screwed up his eyes in pain as the fingers encased his throat.
Charlie lifted one of the hands and began to slap the boy round the face. Slaps grew to punches. He wanted to hurt. His victim struggled and bucked, trying desperately to escape his persecutor – just one of many. ‘Bloody Fritz! Filthy German!’ All Charlie’s pain was used to form that fist, to smash into that hated face.
‘Oy!’ A figure loomed out of the darkness.
The exclamation stayed Charlie’s hand. His eyes flicked up to take in the special constable who was hurrying down the path. His victim took this opportunity to thrust him aside and scrambled upwards, clutching his face. Charlie stared at him. When the boy took his hand away there was a dark wetness smeared under his nose and on the palm he presented in evidence. He was sobbing.
Charlie felt a wave of revulsion for what he had done. It took him to his feet, sent him off and away down the towpath, running as though his life were the issue, not knowing where, just running to escape that terrible deed. His throat screamed as he pounded along one street and then another. It had grown even darker, for which he was glad. It hid his shame. He took a swift turn, and found himself in a back lane where there were no inquisitive eyes to invade his agony. He slammed himself against a wall to shed copious tears.
How could he have done such a despicable thing? He knew the boy had seen in him a friend, someone on whom he could unload his pain – and what had Charlie done but given him more. Why? Here was the first person who could have really understood Charlie’s problem… and Charlie had driven him away. The teary, blood-smeared face haunted him. Still weeping, he banged his fist at the wall, trying to drive the image from his mind. But all this achieved was to produce another image: that of a shocked Father Guillaume, ‘Charlie, how could you be so cruel?’
Well, you don’t bloody care what happens to me either! came the mental yell. Otherwise you wouldn’t have gone off and left me here. Giving the wall a final thump, he ran on, dashing away the tears that blinded his passage.
Somehow, without planning it, he ended up in the street where he least wanted to be. By now he had lapsed into a walk, his tears dried for the time being, though the evidence of their passing still marked his face. Inside the gate, he paused, then lashed out at Mrs Hazelwood’s rose bushes, scattering the last precious bloom of the year. Then with purpose in his step he went into the house and deliberately sought out Rachel who, it happened, was alone in the kitchen. The c
hildren had gone to bed. He had lost track of the time. It must be quite late. The look on Rachel’s face verified this. She was about to rebuke him for being out so long. He leapt in first. ‘I want to go home!’
She forgot her previous objection to counter, ‘Don’t be stupid, there’s a war on.’
‘Stupid, stupid!’ His voiced cracked. ‘You’re always telling me I’m stupid! Everything I do is wrong. I hate it here! I want to go home.’
Her reply was barbed. ‘Much as I would love to see you go, it’s hardly possible until the priest decides to put pen to paper! You’ll just have to put up with your grievances like the rest of us.’
He was about to press the matter, but felt the tears sting again, and he wouldn’t cry in front of her. As he thundered past the girls’ room Becky scrambled out of bed to poke her head round the door. ‘Charlie, are you all—’ The click of his door nipped her solicitations. Hearing her mother’s foot on the stair, she closed the door hurriedly. Rachel wound her lethargic passage up the staircase. Outside her bedroom, she faltered. There was the sound of weeping from along the landing. Damning herself, she leaned her brow against the jamb, pressing it into the wood. She must stop, she really must… he was only a child.
The sobs still in her ears, she was about to let herself into her room when she realized the sounds did not emanate solely from the boy. Turning to the girls’ door, her hand lingered some seconds before tightening on the knob and twisting it. She wandered in and held the lamp over each bed, searching for the one who grieved. Becky’s wet face glistened in the beam of light. Without speaking, Rachel came forth and placed the lamp at the child’s bedside. Rebecca was positioned on the outside of her eldest sister, who appeared to be fast asleep, as were the three girls in the other bed. Still mute, their mother bent and kissed Becky’s cheek, then smoothed away the trickles with a thumb. This tender gesture promoted more tears.
‘Ssh,’ murmured Rachel softly.
‘Oh, Mother, I’m sorry!’ sobbed Becky. ‘I didn’t know it was begging.’
‘You’ll wake the others,’ whispered Rachel, putting a finger to the child’s lips. ‘We’ll talk about it tomorrow.’
‘But will you forgive me?’
‘Yes.’ A kindly smile before the hand left Becky’s cheek.
‘And Charlie?’
Rachel picked up the lamp, about to go. She closed her eyes tiredly at the mention of him, then opened them to look down on the anxious face, and yielded with a sigh. ‘Yes… and Charlie.’
Rowena, who had been feigning unconsciousness, felt as if someone had lifted the heavy blanket that had been stifling her for months. As Rachel slipped from the room, she gave in to the feeling of release which her mother’s comment had induced, snuggling up to Becky, and promptly fell asleep.
Chapter Twenty-nine
Slowly, her eyes came open. She blinked confusedly for a moment… then experienced an acute and unexpected ripple of good-feeling. It was daylight. For the first time in four months she had not woken to pitch blackness in a state of terror. The curtains that she had taken to leaving open in order to temper this condition now admitted a beam of winter sunlight. Thankfulness closed her eyes for a brief span, then she opened them to stare at the ceiling whilst collecting her thoughts.
There were things to be done today, things to be said… Robert came to her suddenly then and she wept, but it was done silently, gazing through the blur of tears at her boy as he had been when alive, not the ghastly vision which had been torturing her every night… just a young boy with sun-tinted hair and a rather boastful manner. The sense of release overwhelmed her, the tears dripping quietly down each side of her face and into the hollows of her ears. The pain was still there – she knew it always would be – but it was no longer destructive. He would come to her every day of her life, but in this form she could face him. Oh, Robert… With the vision still present in her mind, she rose and pulled on a dressing gown. After washing, she selected a dress from her wardrobe, donned it, then sat before the mirror to brush out her hair. Her reflection pulled her up. The features in the mirror had been further sharpened by pain. This was how others must have seen her – a little ferret of a woman. Experimentally, she tightened the muscles around her mouth, curling it into a smile. It didn’t work – looked false. But then who would be expecting her to go around with a smile on her face when her only son was dead?
Thoughtfully, she began to brush her hair, remembering her daughter’s tears of last night. How many more had been shed that she had failed to notice? Then her mind floated along the landing to the boy and once more she stopped brushing. How would you feel if you were that boy’s mother, watching him being victimized for something he couldn’t help? Angry with herself, she dragged the brush through her hair several times, then wound it up and fastened it. With one last imposing stare at her reflection, she went down to the kitchen.
Before she had reached the bottom step the sound of ashes being raked alerted her to his presence. She stopped at the kitchen door and stared in at him. He was trying to do it quietly, coaxing the ashes through the bars to drop onto the tray. The task was almost done. He placed the scraper on a cloth and, gripping the tray, pulled it towards him. Holding it delicately, he was about to take it into the yard when he turned and saw her. Alarm flashed across his face.
‘I didn’t mean to make you jump.’ She moved into the room.
‘I…’ He looked at the tray of ashes.
She went to the back door and opened it for him. He thanked her and hurried past to dispose of the ashes. When he came back she was brushing the hearth.
‘Sorry if I made a mess.’
‘You can hardly clean a grate without making a mess.’ Sorry, sorry, that was all he ever seemed to say. She replaced the brush and shovel on the brass stand, then nodded at the tray he was still holding. ‘Put that back, then.’ He did so, then looked at her. ‘You might as well carry on, seeing as you’ve started.’ He set to laying the fire, placing homemade briquettes of coal-dust and clay among yesterday’s cinders, feeling incompetent and clumsy under her stare. When it was lit she told him to go wash his hands whilst she wiped the hearth with a damp cloth. On rising to her feet, she found him watching her.
He felt he should speak. ‘Will you be going to the shop today?’
‘Yes, but I shall come home early. We don’t do very much business after five. So you don’t have to worry about cooking anything.’ He took this as an advertisement of her distrust, which showed in his expression.
‘Don’t think I’m still blaming you for yesterday,’ she told him. ‘But it’s my job to be here to see to my family. I’ve been very neglectful lately.’ For heaven’s sake, don’t say anything understanding or I’ll scream, she begged silently.
But he was too startled by her admission to answer, at least for a while. When he recovered he chose his words carefully. ‘I’d still like to help if I can. I know I’m not much use, but…’
‘Yes, you can help,’ she said briskly as she set about filling the kettle at the sink. ‘We’ll forget about you finding a job for the time being. As I’m home early I shan’t have a lot of time to cash up and do the books.’ She did not admit that these latter were in a very bad state due to her ineptitude. ‘If I bring everything home with me, perhaps you could do it? You seem to be good at everything else.’ You just can’t stop, can you? she admonished herself. Can’t stop these petty barbs.
He smiled tentatively. ‘I’ll help all I can.’
‘Good.’ Her response came in a pleasanter vein. ‘Now go fetch me the – oh!’ She had lifted the enamel washing-up bowl from the sink, disturbing a big black spider which now scuttled round and round in panic. After dithering for a moment with the kettle in one hand, the bowl in the other, she put both down and clasped her hands, trying to think of a way to get it out. She looked at Charlie, who stared back but did not offer any advice. For God’s sake, you’re forty-one years old! Isn’t it about time you stopped relying on others and gra
ppled with your own problems? Looking around, she took a glass tumbler from the draining board and placed it adroitly over the creature. Tearing a piece from a cardboard packet, she began to slip it under the edge of the glass, so that by pressing the card to the bottom of the glass the spider would be imprisoned, enabling her to lift it from the sink. She did so delicately, holding her mouth askew as she moved to the door. ‘Open it, Charlie!’ Her palm felt the spider’s panicked feet drumming through the card. It made her squirm, but she didn’t drop it. She remained sensible, moved through the door and shook the prisoner onto the floor of the yard.
And with the spider’s liberation she felt as if she, too, was emerging from a prison. You’ve done that, she told herself staunchly – you can do anything!
* * *
He wished there was more fighting, for whilst he was active he wasn’t thinking about Bertie… like now. His eyes were staring at a photograph, the one he had confiscated from Strawbridge, the one of himself and the others and Dobson… but he was seeing Bertie too. He saw him lashed to the gun, he saw the pieces of his photograph fall to the mud, he saw the look of contempt as his son said goodbye, he saw a gaping mouth fill with seawater, a young face disappear beneath the waves…
A loud recitation from Private Jewitt interrupted his thoughts. ‘He was known as Mad Carew, by the girls that he’d been… around with. Has it dropped off yet, Lons?’ Jewitt positioned himself beside the private whom he had addressed and lit a tab.
Russ took his eyes off the photo to study the pair. The young men had only been here six months but already they had adopted the mannerisms and sayings of the veterans. For a long time, the sergeant had tried not to like them. He had made that mistake with others – Dobson and Wheatley in particular – and he wasn’t going to suffer that pain again. From now on they were just soldiers… It hadn’t worked. Somehow, in spite of being idle, crafty and a sneak-thief, Jewitt had made the sergeant like him.
My Father, My Son Page 49
