by James Runcie
‘Because,’ she said.
‘Because?’
‘Because you’re not ready.’
‘When will I be ready then?’
‘I’ll let you know.’
Violet
I was surprised Martin should fall for such a tomboy. With her short hair and only a hint of lipstick, Linda was hardly what you might call feminine. I never knew what to say to her because she was almost as quiet as Martin. Then, when she actually spoke, she never closed her mouth when she stopped. I suppose she thought it was attractive, leaving her lips slightly parted, and she had this languid way of walking that was meant to appeal to men but I thought it made her look as if she’d had a mild dose of rickets.
‘What do you think they say to each other?’ I asked Len.
‘Perhaps they don’t talk much.’
‘You don’t think …’
‘Yes, I do,’ Len said. ‘She’s loose, that girl.’
He didn’t mind too much as long as what they did took place out of the house but I knew he would have felt differently if he’d had a daughter rather than a son. I suppose he thought that if he said anything Martin might start making comments about us, and neither of us wanted that.
We decided to say nothing and try and make her part of the family; let her see what account she gave of herself. In January 1965 we even took her with us to Churchill’s funeral in London.
Well, that was a mistake. Martin and Linda were almost embarrassed to be seen with us. They kept talking only to each other, the way young people do, whispering and giggling. Honestly, it was so rude of them. It wasn’t as if I didn’t have enough to cope with, what with George and the crowds and Len getting all sentimental about the day.
There were special trains laid on from Southend. By the time we tried to get on at Benfleet they were all packed and it was impossible to find a compartment to ourselves. I knew we should have gone first class and made a day of it but Len said that any train would get us there, no matter what class we travelled, and we’d be better off spending the money on a good lunch.
I had bought a new coat from Marshall & Snelgrove because I wanted to look decent and I’d backcombed my hair and flicked it out at the end; a task made easier after I asked Len to give me the heated rollers for Christmas. All the other women who went up from Canvey were wearing tweed coats and headscarves to keep warm: so drab. I was glad I stood out, although in all those crowds it was hard to make an impact.
I even brought the half a cigar that Churchill had discarded on the deck of the Prince of Wales. George had been serving on the ship and sent it home and I showed it to Martin and Linda on the train. It was what you might call a conversation piece.
‘Winston kept dropping them, half-finished, to give the sailors a treat, a bit of a gasp if they wanted a break, but George varnished his and gave it to me as a souvenir. A lot of them ended up doing that.’
‘Did you thank him?’ Martin asked.
‘What, Churchill?’
‘No, Uncle George.’
‘Of course I did, what do you take me for?’
‘I just wanted to know if he knew you’d got it, before he was wounded …’
‘I hope so, Martin, but I can’t ask him now, can I? He doesn’t know what it is any more.’
I glanced at George, rocking slowly with his blanket over his knees, looking out the window and humming to himself. I think he was singing ‘Is My Baby Blue Tonight?’ but it was hard to tell because the tune kept wandering. If only people knew what it had been like for me, I thought, then they wouldn’t be so sharp.
After we’d got off the train we joined the crowds at Fenchurch Street, a mass of people huddled against the cold all moving slowly down towards the cathedral. It was such a bitter day, rain and freezing fog, and the cold was the kind that bites right into you so you find you’re perishing before you know anything about it. Some women had gathered newspapers to protect their legs but I couldn’t see how that was going to help. Others had got there early and were frying bacon and eggs on portable stoves: lucky beggars. There were people selling hot chestnuts and newspapers containing the whole order of service but Len said we should concentrate on finding a good spot. He wanted to start on Ludgate Hill and then move during the service towards Tower Pier. Then we could all watch the bearer party taking the coffin to the boat that would make its way downriver and out with the tide. Len wanted to be there at the final farewell.
We had to wait so long, stamping our feet, the breath escaping from our mouths. I stood between Len and George, and we had our arms round each other as if it was old times and Lily was alive and we were all friends again with the future to look forward to. I could see Linda and Martin smiling at us, but they didn’t know anything really.
Then, at last, out of the sleet and the mist we saw a great sweeping procession of colour: the shining white helmets of the Marines leading the way, the deep blue of the Navy and the bright scarlet from the cloaks of the Household Cavalry. I felt proud all over again to be English, standing there watching the soldiers, sailors and airmen, with the horses and the pipe bands in perfect formation. I knew then that it didn’t really matter who you were or where you were standing because we had all earned our right to be there. This was what we had fought for. This was who we were.
‘England,’ Len said. ‘No country in the world does a parade like we do. How can anything be better than this?’
Martin smiled, holding Linda to him. ‘The nation defines itself.’
The crowd swelled and people began adjusting their positions as others tried to get to the front by the railings. George shied away from a couple of darkies and I think they must have scared him because then he started shaking. ‘We should move a bit further away,’ I said.
‘There’s no need for that,’ said Martin.
‘Can’t you see he’s frightened?’ I said.
‘They’ve done nothing wrong.’
‘It’s all right, madam,’ one of the men said; I think he must have been West Indian. ‘We’ll find another place.’
‘I don’t mean to be rude …’ I said.
‘You just have been,’ Linda butted in. She was wearing a white mac and a beret so she looked quite French, hardly patriotic.
‘But it’s our day. What have they got to do with it?’
‘They fought too,’ said Martin. ‘I bet they have British passports.’
‘How do you know?’ I said.
‘They probably came over on the Windrush. They must have done their bit otherwise they wouldn’t be here.’
‘Not like George, though …’
‘No, Auntie Vi. We all know that George did the most.’
‘I reckon they should put them on the Isle of Wight,’ Len grumbled, ‘but then you’d have to change the name.’
‘I suppose there’ll be black policemen next,’ I said to Martin. ‘Your mother would turn in her grave.’
‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’ Martin asked.
‘It’s just an expression.’
‘But what does it mean?’
‘Don’t, Martin,’ said Linda. ‘You know it upsets you.’
‘She was my sister, young lady, and so I’ll say what I like. I mean she’d turn over in her grave so she wouldn’t have to see them; that’s what I mean. She’d be on her stomach.’
Then Len chipped in with a joke. ‘I’d have thought it would be dark enough down there as it is. Even if she stayed right side up they’d have to flash their teeth so she could see them …’
‘That’s enough,’ said Linda. ‘We don’t think like you do.’
‘Easy, sweetheart,’ said Len, ‘easy.’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘I’m sorry I spoke.’
Linda didn’t have a clue what any of this was about; far too young to know about death and uncertainty and never being able to imagine a future. All she cared about was music, coffee bars and the latest hairstyle.
Then the service began and people listened in on their radios
: ‘He who would true valour see’ and ‘Fight the good fight’, the Archbishop of Canterbury blessing us all, and the last post at the end. Afterwards there was such quiet, the silence of memory before the reveille. I don’t think anyone wanted it to stop.
By the time the procession left the cathedral we had already made our way down Eastcheap and St Dunstan’s Hill so we could get down to Tower Pier. Then we watched as the coffin was put on to the afterdeck of the Havengore. Every flag was at half-mast and the cranes above Hay’s Wharf lowered their heads in tribute. We stood in silence and listened to the ninety guns firing, one for each year of Sir Winston’s life; and then, afterwards and in the distance, I could hear a pipe band playing ‘The Flowers of the Forest’. It reminded me of Mother. She always liked a cry over that.
Afterwards the five of us managed to warm ourselves up in a nice little cubbyhole at the Prospect of Whitby and we ordered beef and ale pies and steak and kidney pudding. I think we wanted the food to be as English as possible. People were crowding in, some having to drink by the river looking back to St Paul’s, not wanting the ceremony to be over; others spilled out into the street while still trying to catch the warmth from the doorway. Martin and Linda got the drinks in. I think it was their way of snatching a quick kiss at the bar without any of us noticing.
Soon the pub steamed up with a fog of bodies, beer and cigarettes. There was a piano and some singing but it took time to get going because everyone was still thinking about the funeral. No one had the heart for the jollier tunes like ‘Roll Out the Barrel’ but the more romantic numbers upset us even more. The man at the piano had a cigarette in his mouth and a pint by his side, and he looked a bit like Hoagy Carmichael, but I don’t think any of us were really ready for ‘Sweet as a Song’, ‘I Got It Bad and That Ain’t Good’ and ‘I Heard You Cried Last Night’. I think even then we all knew that we’d lost a part of ourselves; and there was nothing we could do to get it back.
Len and I wept with the emotion of the day, looking at George staring out into nothingness and at Martin and Linda together with the future all before them, and I tried to imagine what life might have been like if it had only been kinder to the two of us.
George
Vi’s sister Lily came back. I was sure of it. It was the day we went out to say our last goodbye to Churchill. She sat next to me in the pub with all that steam and heat and all those bodies and yet she looked so young; as if nothing had touched her. The clothes were different, of course, and her hair was darker, but I could tell it was Lily. The boy was there but I didn’t mind, even when he put his arm round her.
She’d changed her name. Called herself something different but I could see right through her. I knew her game.
‘You’re Lily,’ I said and she smiled at me, sharing the secret. Then she patted me on the knee. ‘Never mind, George.’
‘I’m not minding, Lily, you know me. I’m only minding when you go away.’
We had some drinks and she gave me that smile of hers. It reminded me of old times, dancing in the war when I realised that I was with the wrong sister, and here she was, back again, thin and fragile, like a little porcelain doll. We sat close, right up against each other, and I got excited.
‘I … I … I … I … like you very much,’ I said, singing a bit of the song, and she gave that little laugh of hers and said: ‘I like you too, George.’
I wanted to do a bit of ear tickling but she kept brushing my hand away. Perhaps she didn’t want anyone else to see. It would be our private moment.
But the closer she sat to me the more I couldn’t hold on any longer. I leant forward and whispered that I was a bit itchy and if she could help me out I’d be ever so grateful. She didn’t understand and so I took her hand.
‘Come on, Lil,’ I said. ‘You know what to do.’ But she smiled and pulled her hand away.
Perhaps she was playing hard to get. So I asked her in a louder voice to give me a rub and I think the boy heard but I didn’t mind that. I only wanted Lily.
But then it was getting bad, like I couldn’t control it any more, and so I took out my John Thomas to show her what I meant.
‘Come on, darling,’ I said, ‘you can suck it if you like.’
There was a bit of silence and then she laughed and the other woman screamed and Len told me to stop it and put it away. It was just when I was ready so I didn’t know what to do and so I started rubbing it myself. It was the only way but the posh woman kept shouting, telling me to ‘stop that at once’, and said I was revolting. I couldn’t understand what she was on about and I just kept rubbing. After all, it was their fault for looking.
They took Lily to the door, and for a moment I lost sight of her through the crowd. The man at the piano was singing ‘Don’t Sweetheart Me’.
‘Come back, Lily,’ I said, but I couldn’t go after her because I was stuck behind the table. I suppose it was all right because I needed time for everything to calm down. I couldn’t walk out of the pub with my John Thomas all proud. Only Lily was meant to see that.
‘Don’t go,’ I said. She was at the edge of the bar by the door. Then she was gone.
Her sister took me home. She was angry with me. I don’t know why. I get so confused these days.
Funny when you can’t recall your courting properly. The woman spoke to me like I was a stranger, or she was a nurse and there was something wrong with me. She kept using words like ‘shame’ and ‘embarrassment’ and said she thought I’d ‘got over all that nonsense’ but I couldn’t follow anything any more.
It was so much easier to remember my childhood, Dad and me playing cricket on the beach, and me catching the ball high above my head – well done, son – that was when he was proud of me for the first time and he had a surprised look on his face, relieved that I might make something of my life.
No one’s proud of me now, though. I can tell. That’s what the woman keeps saying.
But I’d tried so hard. I fought well. Always at the guns. Only when we were attacked did I go into a funk. I couldn’t stand it. And I don’t know who could have done. It was that hard. They were always at us. And if they weren’t, there was always the imagining. I thought I was going crackers. And then the ship’s doctor said to me softly, ‘Now then, lad.’ A kind word. The first I’d heard. That’s when I went, I suppose.
I should have died with the others.
Martin
I suppose I was glad that Linda could see the funny side but it was a bit bloody ironic that George had got further in one afternoon than I had in weeks. I had to wait for three months, four days, seventeen hours and about thirty-four seconds.
We were going to spend a night fishing on a beach away from the island up the coast on the Maplin Sands, huddling for warmth in a small tent, listening out for the sound of the bells from drowned churches out at sea.
Before it was dark I dug a hole and prepared a bonfire of driftwood, ready to catch sand eels on the low tide. As night fell and the tide receded we could see the eels leap from the beach and we turned on our torches, crouching and running to catch them. Once our bucket was full I lit the bonfire while Linda cut off the heads and gutted the fish so that we could fry them and make sandwiches.
We ate by firelight. Linda told me that as a child she would collect shells of ormers, cutting the fish out of the shell before her mother cleaned them with a hard brush, beat them to make them tender, and then cooked them in a slow oven.
When we looked up at the sky she told me that, as a girl, she had imagined the clouds as animals. They could be an upturned bull, or a seahorse, or the crest of a grebe. Sometimes they could be human; detailed outlines might contain her father’s nose or remind her of the sweep of her mother’s hair. She would make stories out of the sky.
As she spoke I tried to make up my mind which of her eyes to look into. The one nearest to me was brightly lit and had its focus upon me but the eye further away had a darker intensity that suggested rather than spoke, containing secrets she would rathe
r keep hidden. Every half-minute I switched my concentration from one eye to the other because each was telling me something different. The nearest told of hope; the furthest kept saying, ‘I do not trust you. I cannot believe what you are saying to me. Don’t hurt me as I’ve been hurt before.’
We talked until it was nearly morning. Then, when we were drifting off into sleep in the tent, lying side by side, Linda asked casually, ‘Have you got them then?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Well, let’s.’
‘Now?’
‘What are you waiting for? Come on,’ she smiled. ‘It’s what you want, isn’t it?’
I tried to avoid her eyes because I knew it would excite me too soon and so instead I looked back out of the tent at the sky beginning to lighten and at the water tower with its hard red brick and its desolate nothingness. I remembered seeing that someone had scrawled on it: British by Birth. English by the Grace of God. I wondered who had written it, and why, and I thought of the sea again, and of stemming the flood, stopping the surge, and I couldn’t quite believe that this was how I had been conceived, and that everyone did this, everyone, Vi and Dad, that woman and her husband in the electrical shop, the postman, the teacher, the doctor, my God, everyone. I thought of people on the bus going home to make love, in bedrooms, on sofas or in the backs of cars, of illicit lovers booking cheap hotels and lying behind drawn curtains on hot summer afternoons, of people in woodland or in the hollows of cliffs, finding themselves and each other saying, ‘At last, this is what I have found; this is what I have been searching for, now I can breathe again.’
I dreamt of Linda’s body and of the sea, and everything we had done together. I don’t know for how long we slept but the light was still pale when we woke.
‘Where do unremembered dreams go?’ Linda asked. ‘What happens to them? Are they lost for ever?’
‘Perhaps we dream them again and again until we remember them.’
The beach was deserted and Linda swam naked, pushing away fronds of seaweed, golden brown, pink and emerald green. As she swam I tried to imagine what our future might be like and how different it could be from that of our parents.
