Becky, my bubbly, humorous companion, reduced to such misery as to be almost unrecognisable.
To my unspoken question she added, ‘Of course I didn’t know when I saw you last weekend. We had such a lovely day in town and I thought you seemed more your old self and I was looking forward to the new term. They’ve stitched me up behind my back and my mother dropped the bombshell this morning. She knew I’d be upset and so she’s allowed only enough time for me to organise what I’m going to pack ready for tomorrow.’
‘Is it really impossible for you to stay on with your brother here?’
‘I tried that. He doesn’t want me here. Rachel’s just announced she’s expecting another baby and they’ll need the space at home. At what’s going be their home and their home only,’ she added bitterly. ‘I’d only be in the way. My mother and I are moving in with my aunt and her family. My mother says it will be a bit of a squeeze but only temporary because I’m getting married.’
‘Aren’t you both a bit young to get married? Where will you live?’
‘I don’t think I ever told you. Reuben’s twenty-three now and he works in the family business. They own a number of grocery shops dotted around North London and Reuben’s been learning the ropes and he’s going to be given one of them to manage at first. There are empty rooms above. The tenants cleared off into the countryside in the autumn because of the bombing and with so many places up for letting, Reuben’s father said we might as well have one of his.’
Becky put a hand on my forearm. ‘I’m sorry to be talking about marriage,’ she added. ‘I know it’s painful for you still.’
The same Becky, even in the midst of her misery thinking of others. She continued, ‘Can I spend my last day with you?’
‘Won’t your mother be worried?’
‘I don’t care. I know we can keep in touch and maybe meet up in town one Sunday but I’m not stupid. You can’t turn the clock back. It won’t be the same.’ Becky looked for the first time at the books and papers on the table. ‘I’m sorry, I should go. You’ve got work to do.’
Gathering up the books and papers, I deposited them in my satchel. ‘Nonsense. That can wait. You’re more important. What would you like to do?’
We wandered through Brixton Market and caught a 33 to Northumberland Avenue and walked to Trafalgar Square. Averting my eyes from Canada House sitting along the far side and from the road beyond leading off towards Spring Gardens, and praying that Becky didn’t want to walk up the Mall and through St James’ Park, I found myself led into the National Gallery instead and we stood for a while in the Octagonal room where we had enjoyed the concert a year ago. Before James. But, meandering through the echoing halls I saw James in my mind’s eye beside me. Now look at me, I’d thought, walking these galleries with this handsome airman!
Now look at me, I thought, damaged goods, guilty beyond measure. Presenting a facade of innocence, a veneer of respectability. All lies. Responsible for sending a good man to his death.
Becky led me out and across to St Martin-in-the-Fields and sat beside me while I tried to pray, my devotions as empty as the walls of the National Gallery, abandonment and loss echoing as loudly as its halls.
In little over fifteen months I’ve lost virtually everything I’ve had. Nan, who understood me in ways Mummy never will, has married and moved away. James flashed into my life and has gone forever. I gave my virginity away for a lifetime of regrets. I’ve lost so many homes in Leatherhead and London I don’t feel I have a home anywhere. I’ve lost Bill’s easy friendship for a jumpily jealous boy I don’t recognise. And now my best and only close friend and companion is leaving me too. Dear God, forgive what I have done and grant me a kinder 1941.
I felt no responding revelation or spiritual succour and, after a while, lifting my head and sitting back on to the seat, I whispered, ‘Let’s go.’
10
Spring
‘Count your blessings’ was a favourite saying of my grandmother’s and as winter days slowly evolved into spring I equally slowly learnt to do just that. I looked forward to coming home to Booty, his mischievous escapades, boundless energy and indiscriminate affection lifting my spirits as I mounted the stairs each Friday evening, Booty bounding down to greet me and scrambling up and down and around me.
Mrs Brindley was a Great War widow whose son was in the army and she took in washing to supplement her pension. Her home was a Lutyens-inspired cottage-style municipal house in a deliberately rambling and countrified mini-estate tucked behind Leatherhead High Street, with a hedge down each side of the front garden and a white picket fence across the front. There were even climbing roses trained onto trellising either side of the front door. Mrs Brindley was a little plump with a round, homely face above a slight double chin, warm brown eyes etched round with laughter lines, light greying-brown hair that was short but wayward, and her clothes were neat without being ostentatious. Her first words to me were, ‘Welcome, my dear, make yourself at home. I’ve never had a daughter, so regard yourself as the daughter of the house. If you’re feeling peckish don’t hesitate to have a good rummage in my pantry. Let me have your washing on a Friday if you can as that’s the lightest day of my week, but if you need anything done as an emergency just let me know and I’ll fit it in. Now, let me take your coat and we’ll have a nice cup of tea, then I’ll show you round.’
Enveloped by her warm greeting, gawping at the food piled high on my plate each meal and relaxing with her in front of her warm fire in the evenings after I finished my schoolwork, I found myself looking forward to the end of each day. Mrs Brindley regaled me with amusing stories of her Leatherhead childhood and of her family and friends. She seemed genuinely interested in me and my home in Brixton without being unduly inquisitive, and I found myself relaxing and blossoming in her warm kindness. She had a positive take on life that reminded me of Becky, and nothing I needed or asked for was ever too much trouble. I told her nothing of James, but shared my sadness at the change in my friendship with Bill and found her easy to talk to and thoughtful in her advice.
‘Just peg away at being his friend, my dear. Ride out the storms. One day he’ll meet the girl for him and he’ll be grateful you kept him at the far end of your arm. You’re right not to give in and go along with it. One day you’ll find your own young man and you’ll know he’s the one for you. If Bill was the one for you, you’d know it by now.’
Just before half term my parents received a letter from my school listing application requirements for various post-school educational institutions, which requirements included two formal posed photographs. For the first Saturday of half term my mother, through her contacts at the Beaver Club, arranged a special deal with a young photographer who could afford to undercut his rivals. When I pointed out that the application would not need to be submitted for at least another six months, she retorted, ‘Your father insists on keeping the option open for you to go to college so we might as well get them done now as Lord knows how much a photographer will charge in six months’ time without this special price I’ve arranged.’
The photographer, seeming little older than me, had a relaxing manner and asked me to just chat to him while he tested the equipment and took a number of practice shots, and then said ‘Ready,’ at which point I stiffened, looking distantly beyond his right shoulder; he took just one further shot and declared the session over. Well, no wonder he’s cheap, I thought and was astonished the following Saturday in collecting the prints to find that he had produced about thirty small shots of me in different, animated, poses on one large sheet, plus four of the last shot in a larger size. Bill, arriving to ‘Catch up on the little fellow,’ an excuse he’d used a couple of times when home at the weekends since the Christmas holidays, took one look at the multi-photo page and roared with laughter. I had to admit to him I found some quite comical too.
‘Look at this one, catching flies or what?’ he chortled. ‘And what’s this hand gesture meant to be? Why don’t you cut them all out,
put them in order and create a flip cartoon show. With a bit of lip reading we can work out what you were saying.’
‘Ha, ha, very funny,’ I said in mock offence.
‘I must have one to give me a good laugh every day before the serious business of school begins,’ Bill chuckled.
‘Oh, take a couple,’ I said in mock dismissal. Passing him the scissors, I excused myself to the kitchen to make tea.
After Bill had gone I examined the photograph sheet carefully. Two were missing; one I remembered as the fly catching photo; the other I eventually worked out was the small print of the larger photograph.
As the term drew on I began to think that there might be a forgiving God after all. Mrs Brindley’s welcome had not proved to be a flash in the pan. She combined Mrs Fox’s motherliness with Mrs Grice’s staying power, and her care of me was as warm, comfortable and comforting as Mrs Briggs’ and Mrs Haye’s were not. At home James was never mentioned and to the few girls at school who remained from the picnic outing he’d been a throwaway in a passing conversation, irrelevant and forgotten, overridden by the horror and excitement of the capture by the Canadian soldiers. There were occasional nights when, settling for sleep, I realised I had not thought of James once during the course of that day.
‘Back for Easter hols,’ wrote Bill on the postcard that was waiting for me on the living room mantelpiece at home following the end of term. ‘Come over for tea on Saturday about 3? Just a few friends together.’
I turned the postcard back to the picture side and smiled. Swans swam in the foreground and an elegant full span bridge soared in the background. Caversham Bridge, it said.
Somewhere around the age of eleven Bill and I were taken by Maud Whitshere to the Dulwich Picture Gallery, the first purpose-built art gallery in England, older than the Nash Gal. I stood beside Bill in front of ‘Mallards on a Pond’ by Marmaduke Cradock and declared disparagingly, ‘Mallards are all very well, but what this painting needs is a swan!’ Loving the elegant and regal bearing of swans, I took pleasure in drawing their long, curved and sweeping lines. I blamed my love of swans on seeing a performance of Swan Lake as a small child, perched high in the gallery on a wooden bench, squashed between my mother and grandmother, watching spellbound as the dancers glided effortlessly across the stage. After this, seeing the swans on the river when my father’s Sunday morning walks took us that way gave me a special thrill. So it was little surprise that I expressed my views somewhat forcibly that hot summer’s afternoon in the Dulwich Picture Gallery. An expanse of river in a painting demanded a gliding swan. Bill, taking up the challenge, led me on a search for swans in the paintings there and we came to the conclusion that the gallery’s masterpieces were the poorer for the absence of swans.
Ever since, Bill took to sending me postcards, birthday cards, and other greetings cards with swans on them. It started out as a joke between us; in time I found it quite touching. Now I wondered whether this postcard was deliberately chosen with a deeper meaning. Remember, I know you better than anyone, it seemed to be saying. You’re my special friend and I still want you to be my girl.
My mother bustled into the living room carrying a tray of tea and thinly spread meat paste sandwiches.
‘Go and wash your hands, dear,’ she admonished, nodding to me to lift the table leaf and setting the tray on the table. ‘And put your case in your room, I nearly fell over it in the hall.’
I returned to find her holding the postcard, a frown on her face as she looked down at it.
Sitting down, I asked, ‘Is that alright, Mummy, for me to go to Bill’s on Saturday? Or do you have something planned for us?’
‘Well, I was planning on going to see Nanny and thought you could come with me,’ she said. ‘I’m working at the Club the rest of the week and I said I’d cover for Sunday too.’ She pressed her lips together as if to prevent her saying more.
The Club. I’d never been back. Mention of the Beaver Club still upset me but I was determined not to show it. I said brightly,
‘That’s not a problem for me, Mummy, I can always meet up with Bill another time.’
My mother looked up sharply. Perhaps she heard or sensed the catch in my breath. Pressing her lips in further, seemingly weighing up her thoughts, she said,
‘No, you can see your grandmother another time. You go your tea party at Bill’s. And Nanny can always pop in to see you here. She moved us all down to West Norwood then took herself off and married without a by-your-leave. We don’t have to go running to her all the time.’
I heard the mixture of resentfulness and wistfulness in her voice and realised that she had been looking forward to having my company the one day over Easter when she wasn’t working. I leaned forward and said, ‘Could we afford to maybe go somewhere for lunch on Saturday? Treat ourselves to a little time together before I go to Bill’s?’
Mummy brightened. ‘Yes, there’s a little café opened recently just past the main market area that Ethel Reid was only telling me about the other day when I bumped into her on the tram. She was wondering where the proprietor got the money from to open it.’ Mummy mimicked Ethel’s high-pitched and slightly quavery voice. ‘“There’s not enough money to go round with the war on, but he’s kitted it out really nicely and even has tablecloths and napkins”.’
‘The war’s given some people plenty of opportunity to make money out of it,’ I said cynically. Not for nothing were bombed out houses sometimes guarded by soldiers and every street had its own spiv who could get you virtually anything, even a pound of sausages, for the right price.
‘So that’s settled,’ said Mummy firmly. ‘Now tell me how your journey went and is Mrs Brindley feeding you properly?’
Emerging from the café on Easter Saturday early afternoon, Mummy and I wandered through the market, her arm tucked in mine, stopping briefly to pick up a small bunch of closed daffodils for an extortionate price, for me to take to Maud Whitshere that afternoon. Mummy picked up some carrots for the evening meal and, ‘Oh, good!’ she exclaimed, swooping on a small pile of onions. ‘It’s so difficult to find onions being sold nowadays. I know they’re not supposed to be as good for you as other vegetables, but it’s poor man’s goose tonight and that’s just not the same without onions.’ By the time we moved on from the market and reached Brixton Town Hall I realised it was nearly half past two.
‘Do you mind if I part from you here?’ I asked. ‘I might as well go straight to Auntie Maud’s early and see if I can help her.’
‘You’re a good girl,’ said my mother approvingly. ‘Give Maud my love.’
I walked slowly along Acre Lane, sticking to the north side and speeding up as I approached the buildings opposite the shop where my paternal grandfather worked. Terrifying memories of him from my childhood crowded. My stomach lurching and my heart beating faster, I kept my head averted, gazing intently into the frontages of the buildings to my right yet not seeing them as any more than a blur. Usually I approached Bill’s house from the south, crossing Brixton Hill and weaving through the backstreets to a point where I only had to cross Acre Lane opposite the side road in which Bill’s house was situated. Today I took a chance that my grandfather would not see me, or, if he did, he would not recognise the young lady hurrying along the other side of the road with her head tilted away. Drawing level with his shop I risked a swift glance. Although some of his wares were set out on trestles outside, the shop door was shut tight against the brisk chill wind and I realised I was holding my breath. Exhaling with relief, I left the shop behind my left shoulder and continued on until I reached Bill’s house.
Knocking with the grand door knocker, the door opened, Maud greeting me with a hug and an affectionate smile.
‘I’m sorry I’m a bit early,’ I said, proffering the meagre handful of budding stalks, but Maud expressed as much delight as would have been evinced by an extravagant bouquet.
‘How lovely to have some spring flowers in the house,’ she gushed. ‘Do come on in and don’t wo
rry about being early, you’re like family, so there’s no need for us to stand on ceremony. Take off your coat, dear, and tell me how your term has gone. Come through to the kitchen with me while I put together the finishing touches to my flourless cake.’
I followed her through after depositing my coat on the coat stand and my hat on the hat stand above.
‘My goodness,’ I exclaimed, surveying the table laden with plates of sandwiches, pastries and cakes. ‘What a lovely looking repast. Are you expecting many people?’
‘Oh, no,’ Maud replied, ‘Just half a dozen, but you know what appetites young people have.’
I cocked an ear, surprised that Bill had not come rushing down upon my arrival. ‘Is Bill upstairs?’
‘No, he’s gone out to track down some soft drinks. He wants lemonade but I told him he won’t find that with the war on. He’ll probably have to make do with soda water,’ Maud replied. ‘Here, dear, would you be kind enough to put these teaspoons on the jam dishes,’ passing me a couple of spoons. ‘He should be back soon.’
As she spoke there was a knock on the front door.
‘Oh, dear, Bill’s forgotten his key again,’ tutted Maud. ‘Would you be kind enough to open the door for him?’
I went to the front door and, grabbing the lock handle, opened the door with a theatrical sweep, dramatically throwing my arms up high and posing with a ‘Ta Daaah’, a mode of greeting developed with Bill over the years. Freezing in my pose, I saw before me not a stocky grinning Bill but a tall, very tall, startled, light brown-haired young man, cornflower blue eyes raking me briefly. He recovered swiftly, sweeping his right arm in a circling, scooping motion downwards as he bowed deeply, then, reaching up, grabbing my right hand with his, bowing again to lay his mouth gently on my knuckles.
The Keeping of Secrets Page 19
