by S Block
Has he decided to kill me, poisoning me as he believed I once tried to poison him? Smell the pilchards before eating them. Taste a little before swallowing. Is he particular about which plate is mine and which is Joyce’s? Or does he have to poison us both to make it appear like a terrible accident?
When the time came to eat, Bob looked at the two seated women and smiled.
‘Bon appetit, ladies,’ he said, pronouncing the French with heavy emphasis.
‘It looks very appetising, Mr Simms. You’ve done a splendid job.’
‘You haven’t eaten it yet, Mrs C. Don’t be impressed by appearance alone.’
Pat watched as Bob tucked into his own lunch, made by his own hand. She held back until Joyce had eaten several mouthfuls of hers, swallowed and survived, then slowly cut into various items on her own plate as if they might reveal the small drop of poison she imagined had been cunningly deposited into the middle of a potato, or a pilchard’s belly.
‘Come along, Patricia,’ Bob said playfully. ‘You’ve hardly touched yours.’
Pat looked at Bob, sensing she was being lured into a trap of some kind. Joyce continued to happily munch her way through her plate of food, oblivious to the currents of suspicion and presumed malice that invisibly swirled around her.
‘Truth is, Bob, I’m not really all that hungry,’ Pat said. ‘Frances put out a lovely tea for the committee meeting. I’m still a little full from fruit cake.’
Bob turned to her, his eyes narrowing. ‘But I’ve made this specially.’
‘I know you have, Bob—’ Pat said softly, careful not to sound ungrateful. ‘And I greatly appreciate what you’ve done. Joyce and I were wondering what to make for lunch on the way back, so you can imagine how much of a welcome surprise it was to come in and find you at the stove.’
Bob looked at his wife. ‘Well,’ he said calmly, ‘it’s up to you. I can hardly be held responsible for what you may have already eaten this morning.’
He doesn’t mind if I don’t eat it. Perhaps he has simply made us lunch, with no ulterior motive other than to be pleasant and thank us for doing his bidding day and night.
‘If you don’t want it now,’ Bob continued, ‘why don’t I put it in the oven for later, and you can have it this evening?’
Wait, wait, wait. One way or another he wants me to eat this. If not now, then tonight.
‘Or you can have it later, Bob. I know how much you like pilchards.’
Bob leaned towards Joyce for a moment.
‘I did, Mrs C,’ he said conspiratorially. ‘Until Pat tried to kill me with a pair last year!’
Joyce’s eyes widened like saucers, eager to hear the story that Bob’s headline promised.
‘Food poisoning!’ he said.
‘You have to be so careful with fish,’ Joyce said.
‘I was in hospital for three days. I haven’t touched pilchards since. But I woke up this morning and just had a yen for them. As if my fear had suddenly lifted and my old love of them had returned. Funny how the mind works. Perhaps it’s very difficult to maintain certain feelings indefinitely. Eventually, the mind gets tired and says, “You know what, old chap, this is taking up too much energy, why not like them again?” Things change, don’t they, Mrs C? That’s what life is, don’t you think – constant change?’
‘That is a very wise thing to say, Mr Simms. A very astute observation.’
Not that astute. Fairly obvious.
‘But you don’t have to worry about these pilchards, Mrs C. Fresh off the boat this morning – I checked their eyes. Clear as marbles.’
Bob resumed eating.
‘So, will you be all right to have mine later if I didn’t feel like them, Bob?’ Pat asked, trying once again not to sound suspicious.
‘Why not? Better than letting them go to waste. Criminal to allow a fresh pilchard to go to waste, wouldn’t you say, Mrs C?’
Joyce nodded. ‘Brain food, they say,’ she said. ‘Good for your writing, no doubt.’
Bob smiled and nodded.
Pat watched him. The smile seemed genuine. Making lunch for them seemed genuine. Bob seemed almost carefree as he finished his own meal, and then carefully collected their plates and took them into the kitchen. Pat expected him to come back, but she soon heard water pouring from the tap as Bob washed up the plates and cutlery.
‘What a lovely surprise this was,’ Joyce said to Pat. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever had a man prepare a meal for me. Douglas never did. Not once.’
‘And how many did you make for him?’
‘Well, of course, thousands if you include breakfast. Many thousands over the years.’
Pat nodded. ‘Perhaps I’ll resist jumping over myself with gratitude that Bob’s managed a single plate of pilchards since – I can’t remember when.’
‘Credit where credit’s due, Patricia,’ Joyce counselled. ‘He didn’t have to make us lunch at all.’
‘True. Good old, Bob. Hurrah for him!’
The trace of irritation in Pat’s voice wasn’t actually directed at Bob’s effort, poisonous or not. It was more a reflection of her frustration at not having been able to work out his underlying reason for making lunch. His writing had never been unduly troubled by subtext, and whenever he tried to behave archly Pat generally saw through it swiftly enough. Good Bob or bad Bob – what Pat saw was generally what Pat got. This lunchtime, however, she couldn’t make a judgement about him either way. And without knowing the trigger for Bob’s ostensibly pleasant behaviour she was unable to verify if he was being genuine or disingenuous. History had taught her to veer towards the latter. For her own safety, Pat’s suspicion that he was up to no good remained.
Did he simply wake up this morning yearning for pilchards? It’s possible, I suppose. Up until the day they nearly killed him he always enjoyed them. Or is all this a reflection of how pleased he is at how well his book is doing? He’s always more pleasant when he feels appreciated and valued by the wider world. And if it is neither of those, if this is all just a terrible mask of some sort, the façade won’t last. It never does. Some thorny thing will slip out. Stay on your guard, Pat. Smile. Nod. Play along. Don’t draw attention to yourself. Keep safe. For Marek.
Chapter 11
WHILE STAN WAS away on active service, Steph took up the habit after supper of relaxing in his favourite chair, imagining that its arms were his. After a hard day’s labour, she liked nothing more than to sink back into it, allowing its familiar scent of Stan to give the illusion he was close by. She would sit of an evening with a large mug of tea, and watch her son dozing on the old sofa. Steph too would gradually drift into sleep, waking an hour or so later to send Stanley up to bed, following shortly once she had washed up after supper, swept the floors, and cleaned and re-fed the stove.
This evening, however, Steph’s mind was too occupied to even begin to drift away, ruminating over the recent visit by the reporter from the Liverpool Echo. The interview with Philip Shepherd had progressed in a similar fashion to the interview Steph and Little Stan had undergone with the police. Steph gave the same account as before, and Stanley repeated the little white lie about chasing the German pilot across the field and running him to ground, and not the other way around. When Steph heard Stanley repeat the falsehood she felt less bothered than she had the first time.
What difference if a small adjustment makes him feel better? It doesn’t change what happened. Neither of us knows what the German was shouting. Stanley did end up fighting him hand-to-hand, which was brave of him.
Yet the issue continued to niggle away. Stanley’s revised account demanded Steph collude with him. For a woman as steadfastly honest as Steph Farrow, it was a source of discomfort. While Steph could be excused for corroborating a slightly inaccurate account to the police in the immediate aftermath of the event, there was less excuse for repeating the deliberate error several days later. The first time could be discounted as a mistake in the heat of the moment. The second, if it ever came out, could seem l
ike calculated misrepresentation.
But how could it be discovered? There were only three of us there, and one is dead. The boy only changed what happened to make himself bigger in the detective’s eyes. Lads brag. Pride’s a sin not a crime.
As she recalled the event to Shepherd, the dead face of the German pilot kept rising in her mind. Eyes motionless, looking upwards. Mouth locked into a grimace of surprise and pain. Shepherd hadn’t been able to tell Steph when the article was likely to appear, only that it would be soon.
‘The nation’s back’s against the wall. Hitler will try and invade us again, most likely. Your story, Mrs Farrow, will give people heart, make them feel that even if we are invaded, we could resist the Nazis on our own soil.’
Steph got out of the armchair and walked over to the dresser and opened the right-hand drawer. She took out the pad and a pen, and sat at the kitchen table to painstakingly write a letter of explanation to her husband about what was likely to appear in print any day now. With the promise from the detective that her details would not be revealed, Steph had hoped that this would all go away, and she wouldn’t have to tell any of it to Stan – at least until the war was over. The last thing she wanted was for him to be worrying about her and Stanley when he should be worrying about keeping himself alive. Now, with the publication of her story in the Echo, she had no choice but to tell him everything before he either saw it himself in the newspaper, or worse, one of the fellows in his battalion brought it to his attention.
As she sat thinking how to start, she heard a noise from the front parlour. She turned and saw Stanley sitting up on the sofa, fuzzy with sleep.
‘You should go to bed, son,’ she told him.
‘What’re you doing?’ he asked. ‘Who’re you writing to?’
‘Think it’s time I told your dad what happened. Don’t want him finding out from anyone else. When the story comes out in the paper someone’s bound to see it and tell him. Best it comes from me.’
‘What’re you going to say?’
‘Like I said, what happened.’
Steph knew her son was asking her what she was going to tell his father about the pursuit across the field. He looked at her, knowing he couldn’t openly ask her to lie. She looked at him for a few moments, before putting him out of his misery.
‘I’m going to tell him you chased the pilot across the field and wrestled him to the ground.’
Stanley nodded in silence.
‘Got no choice, have I, Stanley?’ Steph said, a touch coldly. ‘It’s what you told both the police and the newspaper man. Have to keep it up now, don’t we?’
Stanley nodded a second time.
‘This is what happens when you don’t tell the truth, Stanley. You have to keep not telling it.’
‘I didn’t mean to. When the policeman asked what happened that’s how it came out in my head.’
Steph looked at him soberly. There was little point going over this now. What’s done is done.
‘Go to bed, Stanley.’
Stanley nodded, came over to his mother, kissed her forehead, and made his way slowly upstairs.
‘’Night, Ma . . .’ he called from the staircase.
Steph didn’t respond. She waited until she heard his bedroom door close before looking down at the empty sheet of paper on the table. The expanse of white paralysed her thinking. She picked up the pen, hoping it would trigger the flow of words. As someone new to expressing herself through the mechanical act of writing, the trigger failed to fire.
How do you tell your husband you’ve shot a man dead? How do you not make it sound like an adventure story, with a happy ending? How do I tell him it’s robbed me of sleep every night since it happened – that I see the lad’s face all day, and think about his mother constantly? How do I tell him I pulled the trigger without shouting a warning? And that Stanley ran for his life from the pilot but has told everyone it was the other way around?
Steph got up from the table and made herself another cup of tea and then sat down again and stared at the sheet of paper for over half an hour, trying to find a way to begin a letter she knew she had to write. Eventually, knowing she would be unable to sleep for another night if she didn’t at least try, she picked up the pen and increased her grip on it. She took a deep breath, and in her slow, child-like hand, Steph began . . .
Dear Stan.
Hope you are not bored in barracks waiting for mobilisation. This is not a letter I ever thought I’d write to you. But what happened here a week and a half ago was never something I thought could happen. A German plane was shot down during a raid. One of the pilots went missing in the area. There was a manhunt but he wasn’t found. Stanley was working by the copse at the bottom of the far field and he saw him camped in the trees. The German saw Stanley and there was a chase. Stanley chased the pilot. And ran him to ground. They fought on the field and I thought the German was going to shoot Stanley. I ran out of the house with the shotgun—
Steph stopped writing and slowly read over the words she had written. The story still seemed alien to her, as if the events they described belonged to someone else.
This is the hardest thing I’ve ever done.
She picked up the pen and carefully placed the nib on the page once more, and continued . . .
Believing Little Stan was about to be shot I pulled the trigger. Stanley was scared but unhurt. The pilot died. I am struggling, Stan. People want to offer me congratulations but I run from it. The dead man was young, Stan, you see. Just a few years older than our boy. I need you here. I need you here . . .
Steph couldn’t think of anything else to add. She signed her name carefully, folded the page, and put it inside an envelope.
The next morning, she slipped out before dawn into a stiff rain to post the letter. She kept the letter dry in her pocket, ensuring its precious message wasn’t diluted or damaged by water. As she heard the envelope hit the bottom of the post box she prayed for its swift delivery, and an even swifter reply.
Chapter 12
ALTHOUGH LAURA WAS generally fearless when cornered, she felt considerably less brave offering herself up to the judgement of others. Avoiding public scrutiny in the wake of her ignominious affair with Wing Commander Bowers had been a significant reason behind joining the Observation Corps, where she could hide away for hours at a time, miles from anyone, and still fulfil a deep-rooted commitment to the war effort. However, the possibility that Myra Rosen, a young doctor no more than ten years older than Laura, might prove unable to stifle a sneering smile or a snort of derision at Laura’s suggestion was too much for Laura to bear.
Instead, she raised the subject with Brian Bennett during her next shift at the Observation Post. Laura had come to appreciate Brian as a man of advanced years with a well-developed, sanguine eye on the world and the people in it.
Brian was an amateur astronomer who had applied to the Observation Corps in the mistaken belief it would give him access to telescopic equipment he was unable to afford himself. He was quietly scouring the dark skies above them through the post’s powerful field binoculars when Laura casually mentioned that since her father’s death she had been giving her own future a great deal of thought.
‘I’m not surprised,’ said Brian, as he continued to peer upwards. ‘Death has a way of focusing the mind. If only briefly, before we fall back into old habits and start wasting time again.’
Laura hadn’t expected quite such a philosophical response, but was grateful he hadn’t lapsed into a series of platitudes about her father’s demise. She wondered if Brian’s interest in astronomy fuelled his tendency towards cosmic pronouncement, or whether it was the other way around. As she was trying to work out which it would be, Brian lowered the binoculars and looked across at her.
‘Your father’s death is a tragedy, Laura – for the village and for you personally, of course. But it is also a spur – not for the village, we’ll just get on and find a new doctor. We have already, in the shape of Dr Rosen. Ob
serve how quickly the village has mourned and moved on. Because that’s what life does. It moves on, whether we want it to or not. We have to move with it or wake up one day thirty years hence and wonder why we did nothing with our lives. In that sense, it is a spur for you. Take heed.’
‘That’s precisely it, Mr Bennett. My father never wasted a moment of his life. Even when he was in his armchair smoking his pipe, he would invariably be reading the latest copy of The Lancet, or a research paper – to broaden his knowledge to make himself a better doctor for his patients.’
‘There you are then,’ said Brian, as if Laura had just confirmed everything he’d just said.
‘There I am . . . where?’ asked Laura, not catching Brian’s drift.
‘By your own analysis of your father’s life you clearly understand the importance of using time effectively. My grandmother had a little phrase when I was a child, I’ve always remembered it. “Brian,” she’d say, “waste time and time will waste you.” I had no idea what she meant until I was old enough to learn the difference between indolence and relaxation. I recently read Howard Spring’s new book, Fame Is the Spur, and it occurred to me he’d got the title wrong.’
‘Because time is the spur!’ Laura blurted out, finally coming into alignment with Brian’s thinking.
‘Precisely!’ he confirmed. ‘Fame is nothing but a desire for recognition. To achieve self-worth, we must feel the breath of time on our neck, urging us on productively, before it runs out.’
Laura was starting to enjoy this conversation, and barely noticed the evening air had chilled into night.
‘So, what have you been thinking about your future, young lady?’ Brian asked, his mind proving itself sharp and focused.
‘Shortly before he died, in what I think were his last intelligible words to me, my father told me that he thought I might have the makings of a doctor.’
‘I see,’ said Brian.
He looked at Laura for a moment, then raised the binoculars to his eyes and looked directly at her. She was momentarily disconcerted.
