The Keeping of Secrets

by Alice Graysharp

  ‘I’m alright, I’m fine,’ I lied, putting my other hand out for the glass of water that now appeared along with the doorman, who, rushing down, restored my handbag to me, and with several uniformed gentlemen all tutting and fussing around me.

  ‘Hey, boy, you wanna keep a better lookout when Jerry’s on the horizon!’ chortled the one who had been standing on the threshold. It may have been an attempt to lighten the occasion but I shot him a venomous look. I realised my hand was trembling a little as I held the glass and a larger hand gently enveloped mine and held it steady. After a few sips the owner of the hand took and set the glass down on a nearby table.

  ‘Okay fellas, thanks, but show’s over,’ the idiot said, flapping his hands and the audience melted away leaving just him and my mother ministering to me. Inside the canteen near the door, at the cash till, a soldier holding a tray called ‘Shop!’ and my mother squeezed my arm gently and said, ‘I’m sorry, Pat, I’ll be back in a minute, I have to see to my customers,’ and sped off.

  The idiot pulled up another chair and sat down and I looked across at him. He was certainly not a ‘boy’. Below the short, fair, sandy hair and the faint tramlines betraying his forehead, crow’s feet around his blue eyes and lines around his neat mouth deepened with his quizzical smile, and I noticed veins standing up a little on the hand resting on the table. Judging him to be perhaps ten to fifteen years older than me, probably nearer my father’s age than mine, I found myself relaxing a little in his presence. He was nice looking, but no one I equated with my father could be someone to swoon over. Laughing inwardly at myself, for who was my current pin-up but Ronald Coleman, nearly ten years older than my father, I must have shown some expression of amusement, for my companion leaned back, his smile widening.

  ‘Feeling better?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Can I get you anything? A cup of tea perhaps? I hear the English cure all ills with a cup of tea.’

  I smiled back. ‘Well, yes please, if you don’t mind too much. That’s really what I came in here for.’ I indicated my smudged mascara and looked around. ‘I think I need to fix this first.’

  ‘At the far end of the canteen.’ He nodded towards the door, indicating direction. I smiled, collected my handbag and retired to the Ladies, mouthing, ‘I’m fine now,’ as I passed my mother who glanced up from her busy till. She smiled and nodded, returning to her task.

  The Ladies proved to be singular, with a basin in the tiny room. Lowering myself gingerly onto the toilet seat I managed to position myself reasonably comfortably. I was feeling a strong sense of embarrassment reliving the encounter. Perhaps he’ll be gone when I emerge and won’t really stop to get me a cup of tea, I half hoped. I felt a little mortified that he had been so profuse in his apologies whereas I had been at least partly at fault and said nothing. The rest of me was curious to see if he was still there.

  Make-up restored, I returned to the basement room. It was larger than my first impression, taking up one side of the building, with a dado running at about waist height. Much of the room was occupied with an assortment of rectangular and square wooden tables around which were gathered a variety of service uniforms. At the end of the long serving tables, behind which hovered a couple of serving ladies, and nearest to the main entrance, stood my mother’s till, beside which I noticed a table made ready for the clearers with three bins, one clearly a food bin and the next a receptacle for cutlery. The third, closest to the door, had a large notice attached in my mother’s elegant handwriting, Used ration cards and other papers please.

  The idiot was now inside the canteen room sitting patiently at a table near the entrance with two cups of tea in front of him. Smiling, he rose, helping me to my seat and sitting down again.

  ‘I hope I haven’t interfered too much with your plans for this afternoon,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, no,’ I assured him. ‘I intended stopping here for a cup of tea before going on to the Nash Gal.’

  He cocked his head half questioningly.

  ‘You’re not a member of staff here?’

  ‘No,’ interjected my mother, having followed me over upon my reappearance, ‘Pat’s with me.’

  The idiot looked up at her, then across to me and smiled again. ‘I can see you’re related. Don’t let me interfere with your afternoon, ladies,’ and he half rose, but my mother placed a hand on his shoulder and pressed him down.

  ‘I’m on duty and, as you can see, it’s a busy afternoon,’ she said. ‘Enjoy your cup of tea. I’ll see you later, Pat. Do you want to travel home with me? I’m finishing at five today.’

  I checked my watch. ‘I want to go to the Nash Gal first, and after that I could go on to do a bit of window shopping. Yes, I’ll meet you back here at five.’

  My mother nodded and returned to her till.

  The idiot leaned forward. ‘Pat? Is that short for Patricia?’

  I nodded.

  ‘A pretty name, from Patrick,’ he continued. Stating the obvious. ‘Ironically, the Saint Patrick was born British but became an Irishman. My family originated from Scotland but we’re now Canadians. Have your family always lived in London?’

  I was a little nonplussed at the turn of the conversation, but did my best. ‘My family name is Roberts,’ I said, and paused, sipping my tea. ‘Originally from a farm in north Wales. That would be two or three generations back, I think. I know my two older uncles went back to the farm when they were in their teens and it was run by a great uncle of theirs so I suppose he would have been the brother of my great-grandfather who came to London.’

  I thought further. ‘And my other grandfather Caddock’s family originated in the southern part of Wales, adding the extra “d” and the “k” on moving to London, at least that’s the family legend. So I suppose that makes me similar to you,’ I concluded. ‘We were Welsh but emigrated to England.’

  The idiot smiled.

  ‘Allow me to introduce myself. I’m James Bonar. My family are linked to the Clan Graham of Montrose. Call me James.’

  He held out a hand and I shook it formally, adding a little mischievously, ‘Group Captain James Bonar, I presume.’ He looked a little startled, glancing down at the four stripes on his sleeve, seemingly impressed with my apparent knowledge.

  ‘I’m kinda getting used to them, only just got the promotion before I was sent over here. They kinda missed out the Wing Commander stage as my duties will be administrative as much as flying.’

  Fascinated by his alien, melodious, yet precise accent, I confessed that I had overhead an army man exiting the building speak his name.

  ‘Ah, well, as long as it was a good report of me I won’t be worried.’

  ‘He said you wanted to do a bit of sightseeing.’

  ‘It would be a shame to waste the opportunity. From this evening I’ll be tied up with my duties and I don’t know when I’ll have any leave. So it’s now or never.’

  ‘Well, I really shouldn’t hold you up,’ I said, a little reluctantly.

  ‘I heard you say “the Nash Gal”,’ James said. ‘Would that be the National Gallery by any chance? The loveliest building in Trafalgar Square?’

  I smiled. ‘Yes, I want to find out what concerts and events are planned there for the summer.’

  ‘Could I walk you there?’ James suggested. ‘It might be wise to be accompanied, at least for a little while, to be quite sure that you’re not suffering any ill effects, say concussion, from our earlier encounter.’

  I think I’m suffering some effects from our encounter, I thought, but I wouldn’t call them ill effects.

  Aloud I said, ‘Well, that would be very kind of you, if it’s no trouble.’

  At the National Gallery I took down details of a War Artists’ Exhibition scheduled for July and of the summer concerts timetable. James was interested that there were still a few paintings left hanging and he proved to be knowledgeable and cultured as we wandered the echoing galleries sharing our mutual interest in art. I thought back to the day Becky
and I spent here, an antidote to my disastrous trip to the cinema with Bill. Now look at me, I thought, walking the galleries with this handsome airman!

  As I stood on the steps outside, attempting, but quite failing, to summon up the right parting words, James asked, ‘Is Buckingham Palace far? I’m a little disorientated now. Could you point me in the right direction?’

  Breathlessly I replied, ‘I could show you,’ and wondered at my temerity.

  James nodded and smiled, relief lighting his chiselled features. Leaning conspiratorially towards me he said, ‘I would’ve asked if you hadn’t offered,’ and we laughed.

  I announced, ‘This way, Sir,’ flourishing my hand and he chuckled at my mock subservience.

  ‘I was told the Beaver Club provides tour guides, I guess you’re the unofficial one.’

  Moving into an easy, companionable stride, his long legs adjusting, we conversed about London’s history and the places he wanted to see. In St James’ Park we paused briefly to watch the ducks on the lake, moving on to the Queen Victoria Monument and the Palace Gates. We turned back east along Birdcage Walk and, cutting through side streets, reached Westminster, where James admired the Mother of Parliaments and Big Ben. We slipped into Westminster Abbey, gloomy with the boarding up of the removed west window glass, and cavernous, denuded of its removable treasures. Later, Trafalgar Square loomed at the end of Whitehall and at our impending parting I felt a rising panic, curtailed by James’ suggestion that we find some refreshment. ‘Back to the Beaver Club?’ he asked, but it was only a little after four and I didn’t want the afternoon to end so abruptly. I thought swiftly.

  ‘No tour guide worth her salt could allow a tour to end without a cup of tea at a Lyons Corner House,’ I declared grandly, and James inclined his head for me to lead on. I took him to the one on the opposite corner to Charing Cross Station and we were placed at a table at one side of the room towards the back. James extracted a cigarette packet as we waited for our tea, a quirk of an eyebrow as I refused the proffered cigarette, but he made no comment, dragging deeply before blowing the smoke out of his flared nostrils. He said, ‘It’s been a very pleasant afternoon. You’ve been kind to a stranger in a foreign land and made me feel at home. Could I ask one more thing of you?’

  At that moment the waitress arrived and we were busy for a few minutes with the flurry of activity. Once cups of tea were in front of us, unable to contain my curiosity, I asked, ‘What’s the one more thing you’d like me to do?’

  James was in no hurry to reply, sipping his tea and helping himself to a small gingerbread cake, which he ate slowly, his even white teeth flashing as he bit into its soft brown depths, his lips meeting firmly, a slight lift to the side of his mouth as he chewed and watched me watching him. I blushed a little as if I had caught him in some kind of personal ritual and he swallowed and nodded slightly, as if coming to a decision, smiling more broadly now, the crow’s feet crinkling, and I felt a melting inside me, and I thought, I’d like to draw him, and, blushing again, busied myself with cutting up my scone and butter.

  James leaned forward and spoke quietly so as to not be overheard.

  ‘Will you write to me? Become a kind of pen pal? Send your letters to me at the Beaver Club? When I was shown around this morning I was told letters can be sent to me there using the pigeonholes on the entrance floor. In the B pigeonhole in my case, or they can send it on to an address I give them when I know where I’ll be for a few days. It’s easier than trying to write direct. I’ll be at Croydon for a coupla days then off to meet up with some of our fellas already over here. We have an RAF squadron of Canadians fighting in France, and other fellas in other RAF squadrons, as well as one of our own squadrons that came over in February. I’ll also be checking things out in advance for RCAF squadron No. 1 which’ll be coming over soon. And I hope to fit in a little flying where I’m needed. So I won’t have a fixed address for a while. I don’t know anyone else in England yet and it would be nice to have a pen pal a little closer than Canada.’

  Thinking of girls at school corresponding with friends and relatives in the forces to boost morale and that now I would have one such of my own, I smiled up at him, saying, ‘I’d be delighted.’

  James nodded, smiling back. After a few more moments of companionable tea consumption, looking at his watch, James grimaced. ‘The witching hour is here,’ he said. ‘I have to call in to my digs on my way, so I can’t stop any longer. And you have your own appointment across the way there,’ he added, tipping his head in the direction of the Square.

  ‘With my mother,’ I was about to say, but the words were unspoken as James called a waitress over and paid the bill, insisting that he wanted no contribution from me. ‘A small price to pay for an afternoon of such pleasant company,’ he smiled.

  Outside the Corner House, shaking my hand, James leaned forward slightly, checked himself and drew back with a smile. ‘So long, Pat. Please write.’

  He turned, his wide shouldered, slender-waisted back disappearing into the crowd milling at the entrance to Charing Cross Station. For a moment it seemed that he raised his right arm and waved before he was lost from my sight.

  5

  Birthday

  The following Saturday I celebrated my birthday a week early at home. With tests and internal exams coming up, my mother decreed that I should stay in Leatherhead over my birthday weekend to concentrate on my revision rather than lose the entire time to a trip to London. I couldn’t see how a journey of less than two hours each way door to door could really make all the difference. After all, these were not the actual external matriculation exams. I protested that I could do my revision as easily alone in my little room at home, but my mother retorted, ‘If you hole yourself up working in your room we won’t see you anyway. You might as well make the most of the extra time there. Besides, I’m on the duty rota for next weekend at the Beaver Club so I wouldn’t see you myself much even if you did come home. There is a war on, you know.’

  I thought the weekend duty rota at the Beaver Club was the more likely explanation for her obduracy, jealous of my father and grandmother having time with me that she wouldn’t.

  ‘We’ve enjoyed having you here this past week,’ Mummy added with a finality ending the conversation.

  On my sixteenth birthday I awoke early and listened to Becky breathing evenly in the opposite bed. The early sunshine outlined the dark curtains and the birds sang as they swooped and fluttered outside the open window.

  I stifled a sob, recalling my birthday with my family last year, my father bringing home a warm roll from his night’s baking for my breakfast, my mother and Nan hugging me and wishing me a happy birthday and bearing gifts in their arms and love in their hearts. Today I felt like a poorly roped boat loosened from its moorings by the drifting tide.

  Boats. My sob turned to silent tears as I thought of those poor souls who didn’t make it off the coast of France, machined down by the Germans as they desperately sought the safety of the flotilla of boats sent to evacuate the retreating men. I heard the wireless pleas and saw the newspaper headlines begging the ordinary and extraordinary boat-owning people of Britain to play their part. The evacuation of the men fleeing for their lives began ten days earlier and lasted into early June. Small boats transported some troops from the beaches to the large troop ships lying off the coast in deeper waters owing to the lack of suitable harbour in the area, and boats of all sizes carried other troops all the way across the Channel.

  I was astonished as the reports of the numbers rescued grew. It was said that the prayers of the nation, example-led by the King himself on the last Thursday in May, had been instrumental in saving so many. For during the next day a great storm arose, sinking German boats patrolling the waters and downing many of their planes not already beaten off by the RAF. As the little boats arrived in the storm’s wake a great calm fell, the English channel like a mill-pond. The latest estimate was of more than three hundred thousand men having made it back to Britain. B
ut still too many had died there, and many thousands taken prisoners of war, and I thought of the brave airmen fighting off the remaining German warplanes buzzing and harrying the fleeing men on the dunes and beaches. An estimated one hundred British planes were lost along with eighty pilots dead before their time. James had talked about Canadian airmen in France. Had James fought with them? I wondered. And died? I might never know. The uncertainly was unsettling.

  The defeat of Holland, Belgium and now most likely France, although I had yet to hear of a formal French surrender, was shockingly quick and now it was our turn to face the threat of invasion. Some Happy Birthday, I thought bitterly.

  After a trip to the toilet, an attempt to catch a little more sleep came to nothing. Getting up and dressing quietly, I heard the chime of Mrs Grice’s mantelpiece clock. Seven o’clock. Still an hour to go before Saturday breakfast. I stole out into the hallway and let myself quietly out of the front door, putting the key in the lock and turning it backwards to bring the door closed without a sound, a technique I perfected over the years to avoid a slamming door waking my father prematurely from his daytime sleep.

  Warenne Road was still and silent, my footsteps bouncing off the path as I stepped briskly along, breathing in the mayflower and cowslip scented air, the sun burning onto the fields lining the road beyond the run of bungalows. I climbed the gate. The track across the field led to a clump of trees beside a further gate separating that field from the next, and I rested on a fallen log beneath the trees, the dew still glistening here and there in the shade. I stayed a while, gradually calming my churning thoughts and nauseous stomach.

  Why does everyone talk about a victory at Dunkirk? I wondered. We lost, we were overrun, the French gave in and we couldn’t fight for them. Our boys retreated, we left the big guns and tanks and just ran for it. How can that be a victory? Another part of me reasoned, well, they thought maybe only a few would make it back to England, but instead almost the whole of the army did. So that was something, I suppose. My thoughts turned full circle. What about the tens of thousands who didn’t make it? Dead or prisoners of war. There will be plenty of wives and children weeping today.