Bill sighed. ‘All right, Pat, I won’t say anything. We can keep it a secret for now if you like.’
Feeling boxed into a corner and too weak to fight I did not protest at this last, but, muttering, ‘See you on Sunday,’ I let myself in, leaving him standing on the doorstep.
Two days later Becky and I caught the 33 tram into central London, swapping our experiences. Reuben, it turned out, had been the perfect gentleman and seemed to understand what Becky required of him, which was nothing beyond a polite meeting of strangers, and stuck to the script. ‘But I’m a bit worried about what our mothers might get up to behind our backs,’ she confided. ‘How did you get on?’
Becky laughed uproariously at my description of Bill’s blundering kiss that made my ear ring.
‘It might seem funny to you,’ I said, ‘but the next one was simply awful. He couldn’t even kiss my lips. His mouth’s far too big. How do movie stars make kissing look so nice?’
‘Because they’re paid to.’
‘Nothing you can pay me will induce me to repeat the experience,’ I shuddered. Softening, I allowed myself a small smile, ‘Though I suppose it was a bit comical.’ Sighing, I added, ‘But, stupidly, I didn’t refute his last declaration that we would keep it secret. There’s no “it” as far as I’m concerned.’
‘But you didn’t make it clear to him that there is no “it”?’ Becky surmised.
I nodded. ‘Becky, what shall I do? I have to face him on New Year’s Eve. I’d been looking forward to New Year’s Eve until he went and spoiled everything by making up to me.’
‘You could either write to him and set the record straight before Sunday, or you could see how the evening goes. He might’ve had time to think about it and realised you’re not keen and you can let the notion die a natural death.’
‘Becky, you’re so sensible, there’s me been worrying myself silly. I think I’ll leave it and see what happens on Sunday. I’ll only write to him if he hasn’t got the message by then. I’m sorry to put such a dampener on today.’
‘Not at all, that’s what friends are for. Here’s our stop coming up, let’s have a good time and forget our boy worries.’
We reached the National Gallery shortly after eleven-thirty. Already the queue for the concert for the one day between Christmas and New Year at which Myra Hess would be performing was stretching around the corner up Charing Cross Road. We joined the queue. Becky stamped her feet.
‘It’s turned really cold since last week,’ I sympathised. ‘It would just be our luck for it to snow in time for our return next week.’
‘I don’t mind snow in London so much, everyone just sets to and shovels it out of the way,’ said Becky. ‘I can’t imagine people doing that in the country, though.’
‘Maybe Leatherhead town centre will be alright, but I don’t fancy a long walk from Fetcham in the snow,’ I said.
‘Just have to get our galoshes out of their mothballs.’
The queue suddenly surged forward.
‘They must have realised we’re freezing out here,’ I said.
‘If we think this queue’s long, I can’t imagine what it’ll be like for the New Year’s Day concert,’ said Becky. ‘The paper had an article about it today, there are some photographs of a rehearsal yesterday and it looks as if some pretty famous people will be taking part.’
‘I read they usually let all the children and their parents in first. Perhaps we should have borrowed a child for the day,’ I joked. But the queue was moving smoothly and the wait was not too long. We paid our shilling each and, after a trip to the Ladies, settled ourselves into seats in the gallery adjacent to the octagonal room in which the concerts were held. The seats being fairly central gave us a good view of the centre of the concert platform, if rather distant. By one o’clock the concert room and adjacent rooms were packed and some people strolled in the rooms beyond or sat on the floor. A few one-sheet programmes were circulating and Becky borrowed one from a neighbour.
‘Oh, good, some Chopin, next Handel’s ‘Water Music’, a touch of Scarlatti and lastly a bit of Elgar to stir the soul,’ said Becky. ‘I heard that the opening concert in October included Beethoven’s ‘Appassionata’ which some of the audience weren’t happy with. Not sure about them playing works by German composers with a war on.’
‘Don’t forget Handel was German,’ I pointed out.
‘That doesn’t count,’ responded Becky, ‘as he became English in, I think, 1727. I identify with him because my ancestors came to Britain and settled, like him.’
‘Oh, I don’t mind the older German composers myself,’ I replied, ‘but I’m biased as Beethoven’s my favourite of all.’
The room suddenly hushed as Myra Hess climbed up onto the stage and approached the grand piano, followed by a cellist, three violinists, a double bassist and three brass instrumentalists.
The Chopin was electrifying. From our angle all I could see was Myra Hess’ short dark-haired head bobbing up and down and every now and then she leant back slightly, eyes hooded, head nodding to the rhythms of the waltzes and polkas. I had a Chopin music book at home and recognised several of the pieces she was playing, mentally following the remembered manuscript.
‘Handel coming up,’ whispered Becky as Myra Hess took her bows. Almost as if on cue, Myra Hess stepped forward and spoke.
‘Ladies and Gentlemen,’ she began. ‘Welcome to our lunchtime concert. My choice of composers today demonstrates that music crosses all barriers and that if all peoples work together in harmony we can make the world a better place. We have felt solidarity with Chopin’s Polish compatriots and now we celebrate a composer who made England his home. Later we will stand firm with Italians seeking to throw off the yoke of oppression and I invite you all to join in singing to our country’s favourite Elgar tune at the end.’
As Handel’s light and airy ‘Water Music’ struck up, a deep voice somewhere ahead of us said ‘Bloody Krauts,’ which drew a few gasps and admonitions, and the voice caused further disturbance when a growled ‘Bloody Eyeties’ met the opening bars of a compilation of Scarlatti’s sonatas. I breathed a sigh of relief when the more controversial parts of the concert were over and we could all enjoy standing and singing ‘Land of Hope and Glory’.
After the concert finished we wandered the echoing halls with their walls mostly bare, carrying the ghostly outlines of the requisitioned paintings. Only a few works of art remained, mostly transferred to the concert rooms, which I therefore presumed were not considered to be of great value for posterity. Even before war was declared most of the treasures of the National Gallery had been spirited away to a secret location.
Towards the end of our brief tour I pointed out a painting of a nude lady to Becky, saying, ‘D’you think we’ll find a Mr Briggs masterpiece here one day?’
Giggling like the schoolgirls we were, we tumbled out into the crisp, chill air, our breath forming clouds as we puffed imaginary cigarettes. ‘Lyons Corner House for a late luncheon,’ I said decisively and strode out with a ‘Come along, girls,’ mimicking Miss Marchant’s strident tone, ‘keep in line, decorum, decorum’, while Becky chimed ‘Yes, Miss, no Miss, three bags full Miss’ and we laughed until we held our sides.
On New Year’s Eve I eyed Bill warily as my parents, my grandmother and I were welcomed in turn by Reginald Whitshere’s hearty handshake, Maud hovering behind son and husband, her hands reaching out to clasp coats and hats and bags. My mother and grandmother disappeared with Maud into the kitchen as usual and Reginald and my father beat a path to the drinks’ cabinet. In the past Bill and I would have scampered up to his room to play with his train set or pour over his collection of Champion and Hotspur, reading aloud or enacting their scenes of derring-do and adventure. Bill leaned forward; tilting my head, I managed to reduce his embrace to a peck on the cheek. Feeling very self-conscious, I followed our fathers into the front room and was gratified when my father suggested a game of whist between the four of us. I just need to avoid finding myself on my
own with Bill, maybe he’ll get the message. Then I won’t need to see him for another term. Oh, why did he have to go and spoil everything!
Shortly before midnight Bill was ejected from the house clutching a piece of coal, a salt cellar and a chunk of bread, his hair being deemed the darkest of all. Midnight arrived with Maud hastening to open the back door to let the old year out and Reginald flinging open the front door to welcome in the new with the supposed stranger. Bill, shivering and beaming, extracted a kiss from the ladies and, not wanting to cause a scene by demurring, I presented the other cheek.
As the adults later sat around clinking glasses, toasting the New Year again and speculating on what it would bring, Bill caught me unawares on my return downstairs from a trip to the toilet; gently pulling the door to the front room almost closed, he held me back, hugging me and pointing upwards with an eyebrow to the strategically placed mistletoe which I suspected had only just been placed there; I certainly hadn’t noticed it earlier.
‘My girl,’ he said, and swooped, but I was wise to this now, turning my head away again so his lips scraped my cheek and I ducked out of his embrace and escaped to the front room, throwing a falsely cheerful ‘Happy New Year, Bill,’ over my shoulder.
We stayed overnight rather than face the blackout, their three bedroomed Victorian house tucked behind Acre Lane providing more accommodation than our own rented rooms. My father slept on a board covering their bath (it was fortunate that the toilet was in its own little room!) while my mother and Nan shared a fold-out settee bed in the sitting room and I enjoyed the luxury of the little guest room. Before I settled I placed the chair firmly under the door knob as heroines had done for centuries to protect their honour. The next morning I was relieved to find the chair unmoved and no evidence of any attempt on my virtue.
Breakfast was a quiet affair and we took our leave, Bill and I saying our goodbyes in front of everyone, only his grey-green eyes eloquent of an inner torment. I feared that something indefinable had shifted and that our carefree, bantering friendship, where nothing untoward had been read into a hand clasp or a friendly arm around the shoulder, was lost forever.
Later that day I wrote,
Dear Bill,
This letter is not easy to write as I am very fond of you and I don’t know where to begin. I want you to understand that I am fond of you as a brother or a favoured cousin. I meant it when I said I don’t want to be anyone’s girl, not yours or anyone else’s.
I want to get on with my studies and do well in the matric exams and go on to the sixth form and teacher training college and get a teaching job and keep it, so I don’t expect to get married, ever.
We have enjoyed a lifelong friendship and I hope that we can continue to do so. I release you from any other sense of commitment or obligation you may feel towards me. It would be unfair of me to give you hope or to let you feel in any way that there is a future beyond friendship. I hope you meet someone else and will be happy with her.
I am sorry if this upsets you and I wish to reassure you that I remain always,
Your good friend,
Pat.
3
The Phoney War
A week after the start of the new school term my hostess Mrs Haye scanned a letter briefly over breakfast, muttering,
‘They’re doing a routine inspection of premises, how awkward. It says here they want to come on the tenth, which is today. Really, they could have given me a little more notice.’ She cast me a resentful glance.
I shrank into my chair. My hopes of finding another Mrs Fox coupled with a permanent, comfortable home had not come to fruition here. Not only was the bed a continuing major source of discomfort, Mrs Haye made it clear that, although a useful source of income, I was proving to be a drain on her time and physical resources.
The next day Miss Greaves called me in to see her, saying, ‘Your parents wrote to me complaining about your bed in your present accommodation and I was inclined to consider them unduly fussy. But,’ she continued, looking me up and down, ‘I inspected your current abode yesterday and I must say they do have a point. I’ve found you somewhere with a bed more suitable to your size. Mrs Grice in Fetcham will be your new hostess. You can move in there this afternoon.’
Sands shifting beneath my feet again, I wanted to weep and rail at the constant churning of insecurity and uncertainty. Well trained by home and school, gritting my teeth and attempting a smile rather than a grimace, I thanked Miss Greaves. Four new homes in four months, I thought. Now I have to get used to another new set of people. Never had my motto to trust no one seemed so apt.
Mr and Mrs Grice lived in a flat above a shop at the far end of Fetcham, two miles out of Leatherhead on the road to Stoke D’Abernon and Cobham. My dream of a cottage and a corner of the world to call my own seemed as far away as ever.
‘Oh, Pat,’ said Becky when I saw her the day after my move. ‘You’re even further away from me now.’
‘I know,’ I replied, ‘I’ve let you down. I promised I would not move a third time unless it was with you.’
A half smile flickered on Becky’s face at my pathetic attempt to lighten the mood.
Grimacing, I continued, ‘What’s worse is they’ve only got a tiny second bedroom. I can almost touch the wall on both sides. There’s no chance of you moving in with me.’
‘I’ll get hold of a bicycle and cycle over to see you.’
‘I would get a bicycle too,’ I said, ‘but there’s nowhere for me to keep one.’
‘At least you’ll be able to sleep lying straight,’ consoled Becky. ‘Every cloud has a silver lining.’
‘Will Mrs Grice give me enough to eat with this new food rationing?’ I continued, and Becky rolled her eyes, saying, ‘At least we’ll all get a fair share, better than the shortages because some people have been stockpiling, and nothing can be worse than Mrs Briggs!’
‘Yes,’ I agreed, ‘Nothing can be worse than Mrs Briggs. And although the weather’s cold, at least it’s not snowing.’
Which only goes to show I am the world’s expert at speaking too soon. Snow came to Leatherhead the very next day. And as far as food was concerned, although Mrs Grice was the cashier at a butcher’s shop, I didn’t benefit from the extra meat the butcher slipped into her bag as a bonus from time to time. Mrs Grice was short and plump and could at times be quite motherly but there was a hard set to her thin lips and she scooped up her whispy light brown hair in a bun, I suspected, to save the cost of a trip to the hairdressers. I felt the penetrating cold and the edge of hunger most days.
Towards the end of the Spring Term the silent, beanpole Mr Grice was called up to join the armed forces. Shortly after, Mrs Grice said to me one day at dinner (well, snack time as that’s all it was), ‘I’ve decided to move,’ at which my heart sank. Here we go again, I thought, but Mrs Grice continued, ‘I’ve found a nice little bungalow in Warenne Road and I thought with Mr Grice away I could have the single room and so the double room could be given over to you and another girl. Is there anyone you would like to recommend?’
For a moment I was speechless, then, ‘Oh, yes, how kind of you,’ I gushed, ‘I know just the person, she is a lovely girl and a very good friend of mine. It’s been so difficult to see her out of school and I am sure she would love to come and stay with you, her name’s Becky, it’s short for Rebecca, and you’ll really find her no trouble…’ and I continued on in that vein until Mrs Grice held up her hand.
‘You need convince me no further,’ she said, ‘I’ll write to your school today.’
So, six months after I promised Becky I would make it possible for us to lodge together, fate had stepped in and shown me the way. I didn’t care that Mrs Grice’s motivation, renting the bungalow with two evacuees rather than the smaller flat with one, was purely mercenary. Already I felt the boat steadying and moving into calmer waters.
For the first six months of the war there had been no fighting except for Royal Navy skirmishes with German boats in the Atla
ntic. As spring progressed Becky and I explored the surrounding countryside on bicycles and talked about our longing to be back with our families in London as the threatened bombing had not happened. Everyone called it the Phoney War.
Easter came and, apart from the rationing and Mummy having got herself a job in the recently created Beaver Club in central London, a centre for Canadian servicemen, you would hardly have known there was a war on. London was its usual hustle and bustle and a number of theatres re-opened. The Criterion Theatre had been taken over temporarily by the BBC as its layout was effectively underground and Mummy and I queued on her day off to sit in the audience for one of its live light entertainment broadcasts.
Bill and his parents came over to see us on Easter Saturday afternoon and he and I took Peggy for a walk in Brockwell Park. It had rained heavily in the morning; now the sun was easing a few beams through the clouds but I drew the collar of my coat up around my neck against the chill breeze. I felt awkward in Bill’s presence and was relieved that Peggy gave us a focus and a distraction.
‘Here, fetch,’ called Bill, throwing my old tennis ball we had brought with us, and Peggy bounded off, only to slow and lose interest in the chase as she became distracted by other dogs. I was surprised how many dogs there were around as many people had had their pets destroyed or given their dogs up to the army for the war effort to save the cost of maintaining them on rations. The ball was picked up by a black labrador and dropped into a muddy puddle before the labrador made off with it again. Peggy didn’t even notice as she recklessly sniffed around a fierce looking bulldog. Bill barked with laughter and, catching my eye, coaxed a smile from me although I was still annoyed at the loss of the ball. A few moments later a middle aged man approached us apologetically with his labrador now on a lead and offered back a manky, chewed and soggy ball. I thanked him politely and turned away, holding the ball gingerly between thumb and forefinger.
The Keeping of Secrets Page 6
