The Keeping of Secrets

by Alice Graysharp

  We both shrugged on rain macs as the hot weather of the previous weekend had given way to cool, rainy days and, although at the moment of our departure it was dry, the low clouds were threatening and a chill dampness permeated the air. For a few moments we walked contemplatively together.

  Daddy said, ‘Let her have her way for now. Don’t fight it. Enjoy your art lessons and put up with the rest. She’ll come round. I think this war is changing things. I remember after the Great War life was never quite the same. Ladies now do things undreamt of before then, and I think this one will change things around again. In a year’s time, who knows where we’ll all be.’

  Why does he always give in to her? I thought. As I opened my mouth to object, Daddy held up his hand to shush me.

  ‘If you give the commercial training a go this year, this time next year I’ll see if you can switch to something more of your liking.’ He turned his head towards me. ‘Your mother has a point. Commercial training will give you skills that will give you an option. Give yourself a year to learn some commercial skills. If you’re still as set on teaching this time next year then I’ll support you applying for teacher training. That would mean you won’t be called up and so the issue of what you do if called up won’t arise. But for the moment see your mother’s wishes as keeping your options open.’

  We walked westwards along Idmiston Road and onto Chatsworth Way, and now we were crossing the Norwood Road for the tram stop and I knew my time with my father was up. It would only leave a bad taste in my mouth if I argued with him, so close to parting. Besides, perhaps his wait and see policy would pay off in the long run.

  ‘Very well, Daddy. I’ll do as you say.’ The tram stopped beside us.

  ‘Chin up, my girl, TTFN.’ Ta ta for now. The tram swooped him up, my handsome, dapper father who always tried to say something sensible even if he were powerless to follow through. He can only be about ten years older than James, I thought.

  Clasping the letter concealed in my pocket, not risking leaving my mother alone in the flat with a letter vulnerable to discovery, I turned towards West Norwood station, diving into a general grocers that was still open, buying writing paper, pen and envelopes. I sat on the station entrance kerb, oblivious to the passengers stepping around me and wrote hurriedly,

  Dear James, Thank you for your letter. I am sorry I have not replied sooner. I live in Leatherhead during the week where the school is evacuated and I was not home last weekend for my birthday so I have only just picked up your letter this afternoon. I am glad you are settling in well. I hope the weather this past week has not proven adverse to your progress. Everything here is much the same. I will be pleased to show you more of London when you have the opportunity and I will do my best to be at the Beaver Club between 2.30pm and 3pm tomorrow, but if I can’t perhaps we will meet again some other time. See you later, alligator. And agonised as to whether with the last I was being too familiar.

  I addressed the letter to him care of the Beaver Club and dashed to West Norwood Post Office. They were closing, but I just caught that evening’s post. At least he’ll get the letter tomorrow, I thought, or if he can’t be there it will be sent on to him.

  Satisfied that I had done all I could, I set off home, realising as I sped along Idmiston Road that the sprightly figure ahead of me was my grandmother.

  ‘Nanny,’ I called and she turned, waiting for me to catch up and giving me a kiss and a hug.

  ‘Lovely to see you again, my dear,’ she said. We linked arms for the last hundred yards or so to the house.

  ‘How’s your love life going, Nanny?’ I asked, a little cheekily. ‘How’s your Mr Torston?’

  ‘He’s doing very well, thank you my dear,’ she replied. ‘And how’s your Mister Whoever?’

  ‘I don’t have a love life,’ I responded. ‘I’m far too much of a swot for that.’

  ‘Nonsense, my dear,’ she retorted, pulling back and turning to me. ‘You’ve a sparkle in your eye and I don’t suppose it was young Bill who put it there.’

  I laughed, throwing my head back. ‘Ah, well, there are any number of young men at St Birstan’s to choose from. And when I’m walking out with one of them all nice and proper you’ll be the first to know.’

  ‘That means it’s not one of them either,’ observed Nanny, and I laughed again, tapping my nose with my forefinger and steering her towards the front door.

  That evening I mentioned in passing that I had in mind to seek out Becky the next day, from whom I had received a brief missive on Wednesday telling me her father had died and she would not be returning to Leatherhead that week. ‘I want to buy her some flowers from the market and maybe spend a little time with her.’

  ‘Oh,’ said my mother, ‘I have plans for this weekend, but in the circumstances, they can wait.’

  ‘I’ll give you the morning,’ I offered, ‘and head off at lunchtime.’

  ‘Well, why don’t we get the tram to the market and you can choose some material for a new summer frock as I’ve been saving clothing coupons, and we’ll pick up some food for the weekend.’

  The next morning I solved the mystery of the plentiful supply of food in our ration-strapped household. Not content with concentrating on two or three shops in total, my mother darted in and out of three different butchers, four different grocers and two delicatessens, mostly in and around Brixton and the remainder in West Norwood as we arrived back from our outing. We filled a couple of capacious bags she had chosen with fastenings and cloths to cover the food as it was plunged into the depths of the bags.

  Away from the busy main road with no one to overhear, I demanded in a low voice, ‘How can we be buying all this food on our ration cards? Where have all the ration stamps come from?’

  My mother turned and, putting her finger to her lips, tapped the side of her nose and actually winked.

  ‘Be thankful for small mercies,’ she murmured. By now we had moved from Chatsworth Way into Idmiston Road and my arms felt as if they had grown several inches with the weight of the bags.

  I persisted, ‘Please don’t tell me you’ve got them off the black market. They could be stolen and there would be hell to pay if you’re discovered.’

  ‘Don’t use such language,’ scolded my mother, ‘and they’re not stolen, merely discarded.’

  I stopped as a memory assailed me. ‘The Beaver Club. There’s a bin near the tills. It says ration cards and other things.’

  ‘I can’t fault your powers of observation,’ said my mother acidly as she carried on and I hurried to catch up. She sighed. ‘I might be one of the few paid staff there, but it’s no more than cleaning would pay. I do get a free lunch thrown in, I suppose. Anyway, one day I realised the boys were throwing their week’s rations cards away with unused ration stamps as they left at the end of their leave.’

  By now we were at the front door and she turned to me as she extracted her key from her bag. Speaking low, she said defensively, ‘It’s not stealing, you know. Those cards would just be thrown away. I could find a buyer, I suppose, who would make me a penny or two on the black market, but I don’t want to get embroiled in something so underhand. I still have to pay for the food, of course, but as part of the regular ration arrangements. It’s not like I’m having to buy the food at sky high prices like off some of those dodgy market stalls.’

  As she turned to the door and inserted the key, she hissed over her shoulder, ‘Don’t tell Daddy. I’m sure he’s worked it out but he doesn’t want to know, if you understand what I mean.’

  Leaving me speechless on the doorstep she marched inside. Following her up, I reflected, well, it’s not as if I can honestly say that everything I’ve done is straight down the line. What does writing to James without my parents’ knowledge count as? Or not telling them I’m meeting him again today? I’m not sure they would approve, which is why I’m not telling them.

  I left again as quickly as I could after a hastily prepared cold lunch, pleading Becky as priority, and saying I wasn�
��t sure when I would be back as I might take Becky into town to cheer her up. I grabbed the small bunch of flowers I had bought earlier and hastened back towards Brixton. Becky was in and delighted to see me. The home above the tailor’s shop was packed with relatives and after a short while I made my excuses. Becky came down with me to the front door.

  ‘Thank you for coming and for the flowers. I know how difficult it is to find some now. I’m sorry I won’t be back for another week or so. Miss Greaves sent me some test papers to work through in my own time. The school’s been very supportive. I’ll be back maybe a few days before the exams.’

  ‘If there’s anything I can do, let me know. I can send you some of the revision notes. I’m sorry I didn’t think to bring any with me. I didn’t know how you’d be bearing up.’ I turned my head towards the Effra Road and Water Lane junction, cocking it slightly, listening for the clatter of advancing trams.

  Becky looked me up and down, raising an eyebrow. ‘You’re looking especially smart for a Saturday afternoon trip to see me. Going on into town?’

  I hesitated. She was my best friend. I could trust her.

  ‘James. The airman I met at half term. I heard from him yesterday. Just a bit of sightseeing.’

  ‘And I’m guessing I make a good excuse to be out this afternoon?’

  I blushed, and Becky laughed. ‘Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me. I appreciate you coming to see me first. Just don’t do anything you wouldn’t want to tell me about. Now go, don’t miss this one.’

  The tram could be heard rounding the corner from the Brockwell Park direction into Water Lane. A quick hug for Becky and I hastened to the tram stop. It was a little past two now and, boarding the tram, I was panicking that I would be too late for James.

  I hared along Northumberland Avenue and into the Square, round to the Beaver Club, but was brought up short with the thought, What if one of Mummy’s co-workers sees me and tells her, oh my goodness, I didn’t think of that, and as I stood outside dithering, the front door opened and James stepped out.

  ‘I saw you from inside,’ he said, smiling, and I felt as if the sun had burst from behind a dark cloud and my cheek muscles hurt from my own wide, idiotic smile. He put out his right hand and I shook it a little more vigorously than etiquette demanded, and, keeping hold of my hand, he moved to my side tucking my arm in his. Patting my hand, with a quirk of his mouth, he said,

  ‘Thanks for your letter. I’ve just read it so I knew you were coming. Ready for that second whistle-stop tour you promised me?’

  And I threw my head back laughing as we stepped out towards the Square.

  ‘Where would you like to go today?’ I asked him.

  ‘Oh, you’re the tour guide,’ he answered. ‘Take me anywhere you can with a bit of history.’

  ‘History,’ I repeated, and dramatically swept a wide circle with my free arm while clutching at my bag before it flew off the end. ‘It’s all around you. Take your pick. Roll up, roll up, join Patricia’s magical mystery history tour.’

  He laughed as one or two passers-by glanced at us with bemusement.

  ‘Let’s hop on a bus and go as far as St Paul’s,’ I suggested. ‘I’ll show you the City of London and we’ll see if the Monument’s open and if we’re fit enough to climb all three hundred and eleven steps.’

  And so St Paul’s and the City is what we did, although we were unable to climb the monument to the start of the Great Fire of London as it was closed owing to there being a war on.

  ‘A pity,’ I said, standing beside its base. ‘The view over London is breathtaking.’

  I looked at him and laughed, at myself. ‘Listen to me, as if you don’t see a spectacular view every time you go up in that aeroplane of yours.’

  James smiled, fishing out a packet of cigarettes and a box of matches from a top pocket. ‘Well, you know, it can be cloudy sometimes.’ He offered me a cigarette. I hesitated, not wishing to seem gauche, but I had seen contemporaries choke and gag on their first cigarette and I chose the lesser of the two evils, declining with an apologetic shake of the head and a downward flutter of my right hand.

  In an attempt to cover my social ineptitude, I asked, ‘Have you ever seen London? I mean, from the air?’

  James nodded and lit up.

  ‘It must be the most wonderful thing,’ I said. ‘Is it true everything looks like dollshouses from the air?’

  ‘Have you never flown yourself?’ James asked.

  I shook my head.

  ‘When this awful war’s over I’ll take you up and fly you so high even the clouds will look like dollshouses,’ he declared, emitting his own miniature clouds and raising his cigarette hand in an upwards motion.

  When this awful war’s over. That rather implies a long term friendship, I thought, and felt momentarily uneasy. We hardly know each other and I’m just keeping him company while he’s over here. I’m not ready for anything more.

  As if he sensed the serious turn of the conversation, James turned away slightly, indicating the direction of the main road with his other hand. ‘Time for tea, as you English say,’ he said in a lighter tone. ‘Is there a suitable venue you can recommend? The Savoy, I hear, is good for tea.’

  ‘The Savoy?’ I squeaked.

  ‘Or a Lyons Corner House?’ he suggested, smiling.

  Riding in the bus along Upper Thames Street and on to the Embankment, walking round to the front of Charing Cross Station and crossing the road, James kept the conversation light and humorous. We both laughed as by chance we were shown to the same table we had occupied before. Later, as we sipped a second cup and I dusted the crumbs of the shortbread off my fingers, the waitress finished clearing empty tables and started to upend chairs as a preliminary to sweeping the floor. Realising it was six o’clock, I felt like Cinderella, my lovely day slipping away. James looked around.

  ‘Time to move, I guess. It’s been a great afternoon.’ He hesitated. ‘Pat, would you like to go to a dance next Saturday?’

  I blinked. ‘Where?’

  ‘At the Beaver Club. I’m told they regularly clear the canteen in the old Council Chamber on the first floor and set it up as a dance hall. There’s a midsummer dance planned for next Saturday from around six. I think I can wangle leave for that. My squadron isn’t due to reach Liverpool for another ten days or so. It’d be nice to go back to my duties after the weekend with a happy time to remember. Meet me there a little before six?’

  What else could I say to that but ‘Yes, of course, I’d love to’? Such men and boys were risking their lives daily for us and we owed them a little light relief in return. I shelved the worry for later how to wangle the time, especially an evening, away from home without my parents’ approval.

  James shook my hand as we parted, again hesitating as if about to offer more, stepping back and moving off, and I was not sure whether I was relieved or disappointed that his Canadian background seemed firmly British stiff upper lip and not more flamboyantly French.

  Three days later a newspaper headline in Leatherhead screamed,

  FIRST BOMB ON LONDON

  A high explosive bomb landed the day before in a ploughed field in Addington, which counted as London because Addington was in the London Borough of Croydon. But I read the report avidly, worried by its proximity to Croydon and Biggin Hill aerodromes, and hence to James if he was at one of them.

  The following Friday my mother, seeing me arrive at the top of the stairs, relayed an invitation she had received earlier in the week from Maud Whitshere inviting us to a Midsummer party from five o’clock onwards at the Whitshere’s home.

  The perfect cover, I thought. I’ll feign illness at the last minute. How ironic I’ve spent the past week worrying how to wangle time tomorrow evening to myself so I can get to the Midsummer Dance! Wait, what about Nanny?

  ‘Your grandmother’s invited too,’ added my mother, almost as if she had read my mind, ‘although my guess is that she’ll want to spend the evening with her Mr Torston. St
ill, we can call in to Mr Torston’s on our way back and accompany her home.’

  ‘Is she there now?’

  ‘Where else? I don’t wonder that she moves in with him, she spends more time there than here. Why she wanted to drag us off to live in West Norwood and then grumble about the trouble she now has to see Mr Torston, I really don’t know!

  ‘Unfortunately Bill will be in Reading this weekend studying for matric,’ my mother added, turning back to the kitchenette to rescue a boiling kettle. ‘I’ve arranged to finish early at the Club tomorrow and I should be home around three.’

  I put my case in my room and moved into the living room to find Peggy. I had noticed on visits home recently that Peggy had no longer been running out to greet me enthusiastically. Instead she would wait until I found her curled up in her basket and stretch out a paw in greeting.

  I stopped short. There was no basket and no dog. My stomach lurched.

  ‘Mummy, where’s Peggy?’

  ‘Oh, my dear, she’s gone.’

  ‘Gone, gone where?’

  My mother’s silence answered. Grief swept over me like a tidal wave and I sank down onto a chair. My little companion of childhood, and I hadn’t been with her at the last. As if in answer to my silent question, my mother, following me and placing the tea tray on the table, said, ‘This morning. I was going to take her out for an early walk when Daddy got home and before I left for the Club, but when I went to call her she didn’t respond and I realised she was dead in the basket. She must have died early in the night. She was quite stiff and cold.’ She sat down and put a hand on mine. ‘There wasn’t much room in the garden what with most of it being taken up by the Anderson and the rest vegetables, but Daddy managed to dig a hole in the far corner and replanted some carrots and so there she rests, God bless her. Nanny took the basket and the collar and lead to old Mr Paine’s shop, you know, the second hand shop near the station, to get a few pennies for them. The rug’s had to be thrown out as it was a little soiled.’