by Lizzie Lane
The silence between them was immensely sweet. Communication between two people married as long as they had been did not need to be vocal. Each knew the thoughts of the other and was in tune with them.
‘Has Mrs Grey gone home?’ David asked.
‘Yes.’
‘So we’ve got the place to ourselves.’
She knew exactly what he was suggesting and was not sure that she should agree to it. She started to voice her concern. ‘David, you know what the doctors said …’
He laughed. ‘Doctors? You don’t want to take notice of all they say, darling.’
‘If you’re sure, Doctor David?’
‘Very.’ He squeezed her hand.
She got up and his arm slipped from her waist. ‘I’ll go on up.’
‘I’m right behind you.’
Unwilling to leave him, she waited and watched as he got up from the chair, reached out and tottered slightly. ‘David?’ She tried to control the concern in her voice.
He smiled mischievously and for a moment she saw again the young doctor she’d fallen in love with.
‘Time waits for no man,’ he murmured. It was the most poignant thing he could possibly have said.
No longer driven by the procreative passion of youth, their lovemaking was slow, soft and gentle. It was like playing a well-loved tune; the melody was easily remembered and languorously performed.
After making love, he kissed her and said goodnight.
She lay awhile in the darkness remembering other times when they’d made love. In their youth it had been frequent and fiercely passionate. After the war it had turned from passion to violent lust on his part and a kind of resigned acceptance on hers. That’s where Josef had come in. Did I love him? she asked herself. David stirred beside her.
‘Are you going to your own bed?’ he asked.
‘No.’ She turned and put her arm around him. ‘No. I’m staying with you.’
In the morning, when she woke up, she was still in his bed and wasn’t sure of the time. A small chink of daylight showed through the curtains. She blinked away her sleepiness, got up onto one elbow and reached for the brass monster sitting on the bedside cabinet. Eight o’clock, but the minute hand was not moving. She checked her watch. Nine forty-five!
She threw back the covers and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. ‘David! Quickly! The alarm hasn’t gone off.’
David did not respond. Charlotte shook his shoulder. He didn’t move.
‘David?’
The clock, the room and the world in general seemed to fade from existence as Charlotte realized that David had said goodnight for the very last time.
New Year’s Day, 1954, not the best of dates for a funeral, thought Janet. An inconsequential, a midweek, run-of-the-mill date might pass without anyone noticing. She concluded that although her father’s death had occurred between Christmas and New Year, it could not possibly be forgotten. It was sandwiched between the two, as a normal working weekday was sandwiched between two weekends.
He was buried in the family grave at Westbury, a pretty little cemetery not far from the village and close to the golf links.
‘He would have liked that,’ said Charlotte with a tight smile.
Janet looked at her brother, Geoffrey, and twitched her head, motioning him to offer Charlotte his arm. Her final look of complete exasperation, the last before gritting one’s teeth and snarling the requirement into words, eventually did the trick.
Janet took her mother’s other arm and the three of them made for the waiting limousines.
‘Are you all right, Mother?’
Charlotte nodded. ‘I suppose so. It’s just that I wish it hadn’t been now, I wish more things …’ She paused and sighed. ‘He wasn’t a bad man, you know. And he was a good doctor.’
One of David’s numerous cousins came up at that point and offered Charlotte his condolences. ‘He will be greatly missed, my dear.’ He took her mother’s hand, kissed her on the cheek, then looked from Geoffrey to Janet and back again.
‘So when are you going to become a doctor, young man?’
‘Never!’ said Geoffrey.
‘Geoffrey doesn’t want to be a doctor,’ Charlotte said.
The uncle raised his eyebrows. His eyelids were heavy, like soup spoons falling over his eyes. ‘Really? What a shame.’
Janet saw Geoffrey bristle. Her mother dropped her gaze to the floor. Geoffrey’s lifestyle and choice of career were still something of a mystery. His personal life was less so. He was still seeing Dorothea, much to Janet’s surprise.
Dorothea attended the funeral, but had stayed in the background until it was over. Now that they’d reached the cars, she came bouncing up, a picture in Astrakhan fur and thickly soled boots. She immediately slipped her arm into Geoffrey’s and said to Charlotte, ‘So terribly sorry, Mrs Hennessey-White. My parents send their condolences.’
Charlotte merely smiled and nodded. ‘It’s very kind of you to come, Dorothea.’
‘My pleasure,’ Dorothea answered, hugging Geoffrey’s arm close to her own. Suddenly, she gave Geoffrey a quick dig in the side and mouthed, ‘Go on.’
Geoffrey shuffled his feet and looked nervous.
Charlotte looked expectant. Something was about to be said. Dorothea’s face said it all and she ended up having to say it.
‘Geoffrey and I are getting married!’
Janet’s jaw dropped.
Charlotte looked a little shaken. ‘I see.’
‘So you’re going to gain a daughter – if that’s all right with you,’ said Dorothea, beaming broadly.
‘Geoffrey is twenty-one in February,’ said Charlotte. ‘It’s entirely up to him what he does.’ Some widows would have been angry to be told such a thing on the day of their husband’s funeral. Charlotte was surprisingly calm.
Dorothea hugged Geoffrey close, then kissed him on the cheek. ‘And you’re going to gain a grandchild,’ she went on.
Charlotte’s face turned white.
Janet was dumbstruck. Dorothea had actually kept a secret. She hadn’t said a word to anyone.
‘Then of course you must marry.’
‘See! I told you it would be all right.’ Dorothea slapped a dirty great kiss on Geoffrey’s cheek, then dragged him off along the pavement to the last car in the row of hearses that sat outside the cemetery.
Shocked to a standstill, Janet kept her arm linked with that of her mother. She peered at Charlotte’s face, trying to see signs that she might have a heart attack or at least fall to the ground in a dead faint.
‘Mother? Are you all right?’ she whispered and found herself really caring whether anyone had overheard Dorothea’s statement.
The creases at the sides of Charlotte’s eyes became wrinkles as she smiled and patted Janet’s hand. ‘Of course I am.’
‘Mother, they shouldn’t have—’
‘Of course they should! Of course they should,’ she repeated. ‘Life goes on, Janet. No matter what happens, life goes on and we must go along with it. Faith in the future is like keeping a penny for tomorrow just in case you need it.’
Before leaving, Polly flounced up to Charlotte, her jaw clenched and a determined expression on her face. ‘I’ve been wanting to talk to you for a long while, but things have been happening,’ she said.
Charlotte invited her to talk whenever she wanted and apologized for not being available. The irony was wasted.
‘Well, as soon as things are a bit sorted, I’ll be over,’ Polly said.
Weeks later, Charlotte was still sorting things out; papers, clothes, pipes that would no longer be smoked, golf clubs used a few times then left to gather dust. Evidence of a man’s life. Even his old uniform still hung in the wardrobe. Initially she had planned that this would be the first to be thrown out, possibly given to the same rag and bone man to whom Janet had given her things.
Charlotte sat down on the bed and buried her head in her hands. She’d cried many tears, and in nights past and for nights t
o come, she would relive that poignant moment when they’d made love and kissed goodbye for the very last time. Yesterday would still be with her tomorrow. But you must get back to normal, she told herself, and decided to make some tea. The tea was not drunk. The house echoed to her footsteps and the music on the Home Service seemed to get lost amongst the emptiness. Even Mrs Grey was having a day off to go along to see her GP to check on her varicose veins.
She had to get out of the house. She didn’t know or care where. Anywhere!
Just as she was picking up her gloves and the swansdown hat that matched her grey suit trimmed with white piping, the telephone rang.
She paused. Work for the bureau had been put on hold. O’Hara had indeed proved to be the owner of the car. Things seemed to have reached a dead end.
Shall I or shan’t I?
She reached for the front door meaning to ignore it, but paused again. It might be the solicitors, the bank, the garage, the funeral parlour, perhaps a friend, or a relative.
The ringing persisted. She rushed back into the study and picked it up.
Brookman was on the other end. The first thing he did was to commiserate with her on her great loss. After that, excitement resounded in his voice. ‘I’ve some interesting news on our Mr O’Hara.’
Charlotte urged htm to continue.
He cleared his throat. ‘As you know, the large volume of displaced persons coming out of Europe do pose some definite problems. They have to be controlled, hence the Aliens Register and the documents they have to carry with them at all times.’
Paperwork, paperwork! Charlotte winced. She’d seen men who had fought for the Allies grit their teeth as petty officials told them where they could work and live.
She forced herself to concentrate on what Brookman was saying.
‘As long as those documents are kept in order, the Bureau for Displaced Persons cannot be responsible for any anomalies.’
Charlotte’s spirits sank. Nothing could be done. But Brookman had more to say.
‘On investigation it was found that a local police sergeant has been stamping the documents whenever these employers wanted to move workers to a different construction site. He was being paid very handsomely to falsify records. Your people were being employed very cheaply. As most could not speak English they could not protest.’
Her spirits soared higher than they had for weeks. ‘So this policeman’s been arrested?’
‘He has. But he’s not saying much about the people paying him and making the most money. There are others at the top, principally this Michael O’Hara. He’s the one we really want. It’s almost a tradition that the Irish control illegal hiring on building sites, but we think in this case that things are not quite as they seem. We have reason to believe O’Hara is not who he says he is. Could his accent be anything other than Irish?’
Charlotte frowned as his face and a memory flashed into her mind. ‘Yes! American!’
‘Ah!’
Brookman’s short, sharp exclamation said it all. There was something more to this.
She said what was in her mind and had been since first seeing him. ‘I keep thinking I’ve seen him somewhere before – perhaps in the war. His hair might be a different colour of course …’
‘Does the name Mickey Noble mean anything to you?’
‘Not really.’
‘If this man is Noble he’s an American ex-serviceman and was questioned about his papers back in nineteen fifty after a pub landlord was certain he was the man who’d attacked a soldier in his pub four years before that. O’Hara, or Noble, was questioned. The investigation went so far then suddenly the landlord withdrew his accusation.’
‘Why did he do that?’
‘I don’t know. But as I have said, an investigation was instituted and it seemed to be heading in a questionable direction. If O’Hara is Noble, it means that he is here on false papers. It also means that this is a man wanted by the United States Army for the suspected killing of a fellow soldier. Fingerprints would be useful plus any relevant documentation to back it up. I’ll post you the details.’
Noble. Mickey Noble. What was it about that name and about that man? Where had she seen him before? She sighed, closed her eyes and tried to remember. It was no good. I’m getting old, she thought, and felt suddenly drained of energy. But the question remained. Who was Mickey Noble?
Chapter Twenty-five
Mickey O’Hara was trying to seduce her. Polly knew he was and the very thought of it made her feel like a young girl again, not a married woman with an eleven-year-old daughter.
‘Have another port and lemon, honey.’
Honey! How long had it been since she’d heard that word. Coupled with his accent it took her back to a time when the world had seemed full of good-looking Americans who spoke like Gary Cooper at best or James Cagney at worst.
He took her out just one night a week – that’s all it was. Saturday night at the Lucky Cat Club, which was approached down steps slippery with moss. If it had had windows they would have looked out over the river, but they were boarded over. Originally the basement of a large Georgian house – all that remained of the house nowadays – now a gathering point for those who liked thick smoke with their whisky and the company of women who were called Gertie by day and Gloria once darkness had fallen and the streetlights had come on.
Polly was bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, partly because she was on her third drink and partly because she was attracting looks from blokes in double-breasted suits with gold fillings and big cigars. A lot of women smoked too. One in a dark blue dress was using a cigarette holder like the one Charlotte had used at the birthday party the day before the Coronation.
‘I’d look like Jean Harlow if I had one of them,’ she said to Mickey.
His eyes followed the girl. ‘That’s one hell of a hot baby.’
Biting back her jealousy, Polly watched too. The girl was standing behind her boyfriend, her arms wound around him. Her hands looked as though they met somewhere below his waist.
‘Hmm,’ murmured Polly. ‘That’s a baby likely to get burned.’
Mickey laughed, put his arm around her and kissed her cheek.
Polly studied his features as though trying to guess what he thought of her, where their relationship might end up. Was she likely to get burned too? She didn’t want to think so. He wasn’t the best-looking bloke she’d ever gone out with, but he certainly knew how to treat a girl. And that smile! As long as he smiled like that, looked at her like that, she was putty in his hands.
And Mickey knew it. What Polly didn’t know was that it amused him to have her in his thrall. Polly looked at him sometimes as if she were trying to remember where she’d seen him before. It pleased him to charm her into forgetfulness. Weakness, obsessive behaviour no matter whether it was with regard to gambling, drinking, drugs or sex, Mickey liked to control. And in this particular case it was doubly delicious. A cruel streak ran through him so he would never tell her where they had originally met. If she remembered of her own accord, then so be it. But in the meantime he would take advantage of her in any way he could. What if she was married? What was it to him?
The people in the nightclub were no more than blurred blobs of colour moving against a background of mellow lights. The scene came back into clearer focus as a head bent towards Mickey’s. Ginger! He whispered something into Mickey’s ear. Polly pouted. Were they talking about her? Had Ginger ever told Mickey how an eleven-year-old girl had soundly beaten him with a hockey stick? Not likely, she thought.
Ginger was looking towards the girl in blue and the young toffs she was with, who were beginning to make a nuisance of themselves. The girl in blue had undone the buttons on her boyfriend’s shirt. Now she was down on her knees, unbuttoning his flies, obviously drunk and egged on by the crowd of young men and the one or two women with them.
Mickey got to his feet and excused himself.
Polly pretended to be a lady and looked the other way, but still heard the s
houting and screaming as Mickey and his mates bundled the upper crust crowd out of the club and up to the pavement.
He’s very manly, she thought to herself as she eyed the thick red padding of the bar, the glasses and bottles behind it, their gleam reflected and magnified by the mirrors behind them.
All his, she thought. And they all do what he says. She liked that in a man – authority. Hell, it seemed an age since she’d lain in bed with Billy on a Sunday morning, the best time of all for cuddling up together after peeling their nightclothes off beneath the bedclothes.
A warm flush began to creep over her body. It seemed to start from her toes, but she couldn’t be sure. All she did know was that she suddenly needed Billy – a man – Mickey – physically.
It was fifteen minutes or more before Mickey came back, smoothing the wide lapels of his suit and straightening his tie, enough time for her to get her feelings under control. She patted her cheeks with the back of her right hand.
‘Sorry about that, honey.’ He kissed her cheek. His fingers caressed the nape of her neck. The tingles it caused spread over her body like a spider’s web.
I mustn’t, she thought. Let him take you home, but nothing else, mind you. Be a good girl, Polly Hills.
Thinking it was one thing. Telling him to get lost was an option, but one she didn’t choose. Like an overripe apple, she was falling from the tree. All she could hope for was a soft landing.
‘You’re going to let me take you home, aren’t you?’
‘Yes.’
There it was, the word was out.
He looked into her eyes as he repeated it. ‘Yes.’
And they both knew it wasn’t just the lift they were talking about.
Just as she’d expected, he took a detour. Protestations about her being a respectable married woman stuck in her throat.
The car was spacious. There were no lights on the narrow roads around Durdham Down and there were places to park beneath the trees where the darkness was thickest and privacy was assured.
It started as soft caresses, his hands gently moving around her neck, cupping her face as he kissed her mouth. Her best black coat was thrown over the front seat. The heat of his hands warmed her breasts, but still she shivered as the touch of his palms resurrected old thrills she thought long past. His fingers moved slowly, teasingly beneath her skirt, over her stockings to where they ended and her bare flesh began. She groaned and almost begged for more.
