by Lizzie Lane
It was like Chinese torture. He was drip-feeding the pleasure so she couldn’t help but want more. And she’d been starved for so long. Would it really be so dreadful to give in, to enjoy it just this once?
The house was in darkness when Polly got home. The streetlights were out. Curtains upstairs were tightly closed. A faint moon shone through a crisp frost. Camborne Road was sound asleep.
Creeping home silently was not new for Polly. It was second nature to slip off her shoes even before putting her key in the door. She lit a match to see the lock better, snuffed it out quickly once the key was in then pushed the door open.
Although little light filtered through the dimpled glass of the council house door, there was enough to see by. She wouldn’t need to reach for the light switch. Anyway, council house hallways were hardly spacious. Front door, living room door to the left, coats, jackets and macs hanging on coat hooks to the right, stairs to the bedrooms straight in front of her.
The lino beneath her feet was as cold as the concrete path out in the garden. But she gritted her teeth. Rather cold feet than a ticking off from Aunty Meg. She wouldn’t attempt the stairs. They creaked about halfway up and would quickly give the game away. It wouldn’t hurt to sleep on the settee for one night even if the springs did play a bit of a tune if you moved too vigorously. If she lay very still there’d be no sound at all. In the darkness of the living room with just the glow of a dying fire for company she could think about things – and there was a lot to think about.
Hanging on to the handle so she could stop the door if it creaked, she pushed it open. Just as she’d envisaged the coal that had been heaped and black when she’d gone out was now no more than a glowing bed of red embers. The glow made the room look as if it too was smouldering slightly. It also illuminated Aunty Meg who was hunched in her favourite armchair pulled close to the fire. Polly’s heart fell to her feet.
‘So you did it!’ Meg’s voice was sharp and accusing.
For once Polly was dumbstruck.
Meg continued. ‘You’re no saint, Poll, but I never expected you to play around once you were married even though yer bloke’s got ’imself in clink.’
Polly opened her mouth to protest her innocence, but stopped when Meg looked directly at her. There was no doubting the accusation in her eyes. She rethought things, decided to brazen it out and stepped closer to the fire.
‘I work for him. That’s all.’
‘Don’t make me laugh, Poll. I know damn well what work that sort wants you to do!’
Polly feigned indignation. ‘I work in his nightclub of course. Like a sort of manageress.’
‘Oh, it’s a manageress now, is it? I thought it was supposed to be an office job?’
Polly made a great show of tidying her hair while studying her reflection in the mirror above the fireplace. The glow of the fire lit her face from underneath. Shadows accentuated her features and for a split second she almost thought it was Old Nick looking back out at her. Bloody hell, she weren’t that wicked!
‘There’s no money in office work,’ she managed to say. ‘It’s a job for stuck-up cows like Charlotte’s Janet or timid little tarts like Edna. It’s not for me.’
Meg slapped her meaty hands down on the chair arms so hard it made Polly almost jump out of the black gaberdine suit she was wearing. ‘Well, it’s all coming about, ain’t it? Running around with two-bit scum and running yer friends down. You ought to be ashamed of yourself!’
Polly’s defiance turned to anger. ‘Mickey’s looking after me. He thinks the world of me. See? Look what ’e gave me.’ She took the cigarette holder from her bag and showed it to Meg in the palm of her hand. The girl who’d been thrown out of the club had left it behind.
Meg barely glanced at it. ‘Billy gave you a ring – gold too.’
Polly felt her face grow hotter and it wasn’t because of the fire. She’d been a willing partner in the back of Mickey’s car. She’d missed having sex with Billy, but she’d told herself it would be all right. She didn’t love Mickey. At least she didn’t think she did.
‘He’s all right,’ she blurted at last and set the cigarette holder down on the mantelpiece. She turned to Aunty Meg and did her best to sound as emphatic as possible. ‘He’s all right. Honest he is.’
Meg pushed her hands down on the arms of the chair and pulled herself to her feet. She faced Polly square on, her accusing expression just inches from Polly’s face.
‘What have you done, Poll? What have you done? You’re just a toy to him. He’ll play with you and then throw you aside like some old rag doll with her stuffing coming out. And then you’ll be running back to Billy. And what will you say to him, Poll? What will you say?’
Polly stuck her chin out defiantly. ‘So who’s going to tell him?’
The stairs out in the hall creaked slightly. Blinking away the sleep Carol was settled on a stair and flattened against the wall.
She’d heard the noise and had almost convinced herself that Father Christmas was back with the presents she’d asked for, but had never got at Christmas. But no, of course not. She wasn’t a kid. She knew what her mother was like. She’d been out with another man, and from what her Aunty Meg was saying, he was something to do with the nasty pair who’d come in and pushed them around.
‘I’m not ’aving it,’ shouted Meg. ‘It’s not right. An’ Billy will find out about it – mark my words!’
Carol frowned and muttered. ‘Mum, you are a stupid cow!’ She shook her head sagely and lay closer to the wall so she could hear better. Her mother didn’t always think straight, but Carol did.
Polly was saying, ‘He won’t find out! Are you going to tell ’im?’
‘I didn’t say that. But anyone can write a letter addressed to Horfield Prison.’
Carol began to slide her way back up the stairs as a single thought took root in her mind. When she got to her room she took her pencil case out of her satchel along with a sixpenny notebook. Someone had to do something.
Chapter Twenty-six
Dorothea and Geoffrey settled for a registry office wedding, partly out of respect for David’s death, and partly because Geoffrey didn’t hold with capitalist frippery.
The bride wore a bottle green coat with a dark fur collar and a black pillbox hat with a little veil at the front and a feather at the side. Geoffrey was hostile to top hats and tails, but was persuaded to wear a suit and tie.
They were to spend their honeymoon at the Savoy, a gift from Charlotte. Although Geoffrey protested that such opulence was abhorrent to his nature, Dorothea was over the moon about it.
‘And it’s only for two nights,’ she had pleaded.
He didn’t have the heart – or the courage – to disappoint her.
Janet asked Dorothea a big favour before she left.
‘Three Easter eggs, that’s all.’
‘All?’ Dorothea stared at her goggle-eyed. ‘Chocolate has only just come off rationing, you know.’
‘I do know,’ said Janet as she rummaged in her purse. ‘Harrods are bound to have some. Will ten pounds do?’
Two crisp white fivers exchanged hands. ‘Good grief,’ said Dorothea, ‘are they for anyone I know?’
Janet snapped her bag shut. ‘Edna’s children.’
‘Oh yes! Of course.’
Janet had realized long ago that Dorothea had the memory of a sieve. ‘Don’t forget.’
Geoffrey intervened. ‘She won’t forget. I won’t let her forget.’
‘You are so masterful,’ said Dorothea, rubbing herself up against him and looking up into his face like some harem slave in a cinema advertisement for Turkish Delight.
‘I want big ones,’ Janet added.
‘I know,’ said Dorothea and grinned wickedly. ‘So do I. That’s why I married your brother.’
In the brief time when Dorothea was upstairs getting her overnight case, Janet took hold of Geoffrey’s arms and kissed him on the cheek.
‘Good luck, Geoffrey. Have a nice t
ime.’
Geoffrey smiled and shook his head. ‘Bad luck really, isn’t it? All the blokes she’s had and I’m the one to put her in the family way.’
There was nothing she could say in response to that or the look on Geoffrey’s face. He’d been forced to accept a job as an anaesthetist, a dire appointment for a man who’d wanted nothing more to do with medicine. The baby had put paid to any thoughts of travelling and getting further involved in politics and it was obvious he wasn’t too happy about it. Hopefully he would feel differently when the baby was born, though somehow she doubted it.
Sorting out David’s estate and arranging Geoffrey’s wedding had delayed Charlotte meeting Polly. She hadn’t come in to help Mrs Grey and, on the occasions Charlotte had seen her, she’d seemed to be in a hurry and had been more than a little huffy.
It was a surprise when she turned up at the front door demanding to see her.
‘My dear, I am so glad you came. I’ve got something to tell you,’ said Charlotte.
‘And I want a word or two with you,’ Polly exclaimed. ‘I told you I did. It was just finding the time.’ There was a determined set to her jaw and she rolled up her coat sleeves as if she were about to scrub clothes or fight someone.
Me, probably, thought Charlotte, but closed the study door behind them anyway.
Charlotte pre-empted her strike. ‘I saw you with a man named Mickey O’Hara, and I have to speak to you about him.’
Polly was taken aback. She had been going to give Charlotte a ticking off for spying on her and had presumed she’d deny it, but Charlotte had mentioned him first. Still, she wasn’t going to be pushed around.
‘So what business is that of yours? What right do you have to go sneaking around following me? What I do – whether it’s right or wrong – is between Billy and me. It’s none of your bloody business!’
Charlotte folded her arms and a deadly serious expression came to her face, the sort of expression that worried her. ‘Oh yes it is, Polly, but I’m not condemning you. I can understand how difficult it must be with Billy still inside.’
‘Oh, you do! Well just for the record—’
‘Sit down!’
Polly had never heard Charlotte shout before and was taken aback. She accordingly sank into a chair.
‘Mickey O’Hara, the man you’ve been having an affair with—’
Polly jerked forward. ‘An affair! How dare …’ She stopped herself. Charlotte was already looking accusingly at her as though remembering what had happened in those years immediately following the war when Polly had wanted a better life in another country, preferably the United States. First Gavin didn’t come back, then she’d blamed Charlotte for getting Aaron, her next lover, sent home to the States. Then she’d started an ill-conceived affair with David, Charlotte’s husband, something Charlotte had long ago forgiven her for. ‘Remember Aaron?’
Polly nodded slowly as the bitter sweetness of knowing him came back to her. ‘I remember.’
‘Then we both remember.’
The silence persisted as both ran through their memories. Fellow soldiers had beaten Aaron to death. All Polly had known – or thought she had – was that Charlotte had destroyed her dream. She’d wanted a replacement man who could give her a better life. She’d also wanted revenge on Charlotte. David had been an easy target, but Polly hadn’t known just how ill and how dangerous he had been. But David was gone now.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said suddenly and shrugged her shoulders as she always did at those times when she was feeling helpless to change things.
Charlotte walked the room, arms folded, head aching and telling herself she was getting too old for confrontations of any description. She’d started feeling more like that since David’s death, but she managed to continue.
‘If you’re talking about the past, it’s all water under the bridge, Polly. We’ve been friends since then and there’s nothing to stop us being friends in future. But there’s something you’ve got to know, something you’ve got to help me with.’
‘I can’t help you with anything.’
‘Mickey O’Hara.’
‘I work for him. That’s all.’ She knew she sounded like a liar and wished Charlotte didn’t look at her so intently.
‘You’re close to him.’
‘That’s typical of you! You’re a nosey cow, Charlotte! And like I said, I only work for the bloke. I go in, do me job, and go home again.’
Exasperated, Charlotte sank into a chair. ‘I saw you, Polly. I saw you at Ashley Road and I saw you in the back of his car. As I said I’m not condemning you. What you do is your own business, but …’ She paused and for a moment her look hardened and made Polly feel as though she’d done something really dirty, really wrong. ‘I have to say that I am very surprised at your choice of lover.’
Polly felt her face turning red. Charlotte’s tone was so scathing, as if her patience with everyone had come to an abrupt end.
Polly decided to bluff it out. ‘Like I was saying—’
‘Don’t lie!’ Charlotte’s voice rang around the room, bounced off the books, the cabinets, the oil paintings of horses bounding over fences. ‘Just answer this very simple question. Do you ever feel as though you’ve met him before?’
Polly frowned. She’d thought at times that she’d bumped into him before, though only in a very casual manner, like when you keep seeing the same bloke in a pub or passing the same postman in the street. Thinking about it made her feel slightly uncomfortable.
‘What do you mean?’
Charlotte knew when she’d struck home. ‘Just answer the question. Do you think you might have seen him before? This is very important.’
Polly faltered. ‘I’ve seen a lot of people before. I like going out to pubs and things. I always have done. So what?’
Charlotte sighed, clasped her hands in front of her and told her very clearly who Mickey O’Hara really was – Sergeant Mickey Noble, the man responsible for Aaron’s death.
Polly sank down into a chair. Her legs were like rubber, her blood like ice.
Charlotte went on. ‘I’ve received the paperwork about him. He was the sergeant at the POW camp at the time I used to visit. It’s the same man Josef Schumann referred to in his letter, the one he sent back in nineteen forty-six. Do you remember that letter and its contents?’
Polly failed to find her voice at first. When she did it was barely above a whisper. ‘I remember. Josef said they beat him to death because he was black and had stood up to Noble.’ She stared at the floor, but saw nothing – except what could have been if people had been different, if Aaron hadn’t been coloured.
Charlotte shook her head. ‘That was only part of it. The truth was that they beat him to death because he was better than they were. Josef said Aaron was intelligent. He spoke German and was gifted in music.’
Polly sniffed, dabbed at her nose with the handkerchief Charlotte handed her then held her head high. ‘Played the Joanna lovely, ’e did. I remember a wonderful night in the Llandoger when Aaron played “As Time Goes By”.’
The memory made her smile. Romance had blossomed, not just between them but with everyone there. Touched by the music, they had all became Bogart and Bergman and the smoke-filled pub had become a North African bar as the theme from Casablanca had filled the air.
Charlotte’s voice broke into her thoughts. ‘Do you want to help me get this man deported and tried for what he did?’
Polly’s eyes blazed. ‘I want to kill him!’
‘You can’t do that and I can’t guarantee the United States justice system will do that. What I can guarantee is that if we can prove he really is Mickey Noble then he’s got at least a life sentence ahead of him.’
‘Hanging would be too good.’
‘Fingerprints would be enough, but if you could find any paperwork relating to his passport, including a birth certificate, it would all help. He obviously got a false birth certificate, then applied for a passport and National Insurance against t
hat.’
‘What do you want me to do?’
Charlotte sighed with relief. She knew how volatile Polly could be on occasion. This was obviously not one of those moments. ‘You have to be careful.’
‘I will be.’
‘You mustn’t arouse his suspicions.’
Polly didn’t answer. She was pursing her bright red lips and looking up at the ceiling. ‘We might have to wait a bit.’
‘We do?’
‘He’s away at present. On business, he reckons. And then there’s a lot of other things going on and there’ll be lots of people about. And then he’s having a cocktail party next week.’ She looked suddenly wistful. ‘I ain’t never been to one of them, so if you don’t mind, we’ll let it bide till the week after. In the meantime I’ll let things go on as normal. Don’t want to raise his suspicions, do I?’
‘No,’ said a bemused Charlotte. ‘You certainly do not.’
‘P’raps I could wangle you an invite to this party,’ said Polly, casually studying her pink painted nails.
Charlotte shook her head adamantly. ‘Oh no. Besides, Susan’s coming home. Edna’s having a little party. Are you around?’
Polly screwed up her eyes and chewed her lips as if she were considering it. ‘No,’ she said at last. ‘I think I’ll be otherwise engaged.’
Susan was coming home!
Edna whizzed around the house like a banshee, duster in one hand and tin of polish in the other. She had Ivan there to empty the guttering above the front door and to paint Susan’s bedroom. She’d chosen yellow.
‘Something bright,’ she exclaimed. ‘This has to be the best party ever, seeing as she’s missed Christmas.’
Colin was busy with a full order book for a new line of aeroplanes and boats and instead of his work force putting them together, the necessary components, plus glue and instructions, were supplied in the box for the buyer to assemble. He apologized to Edna. ‘I’m sorry about being so busy, but I promise I’ll make it up to you when the summer comes. How about us going away for a week in a caravan at Weymouth or somewhere? Can you manage to organize a party by yourself?’
