Starlight

by Anne Douglas

  ‘Got into me?’ he repeated, turning his gaze on her. ‘Nothing’s got into me. What I feel about folk at home nattering on about their little problems has always been with me.’ He struck his chest with his hand. ‘Here.’

  ‘Are you talking about Ben?’ Jess asked coldly. ‘He was in the war, just like you. He was also blown up, like some of the folk at home you talk about. Me, for instance.’

  Colour flared on Rusty’s cheekbones.

  ‘You know I didn’t mean you,’ he said quickly. ‘And I shouldn’t have lost my temper with Ben.’ He took her arm. ‘Come on, let’s go to the Shore.’

  ‘You usually prefer the Links.’

  He shrugged. ‘You like the Shore. I don’t care where I go.’

  With her husband in such a mood, maybe Jess didn’t either, but it was true that she still liked strolling round the old harbour, looking out from the quay to the small boats that had replaced the graceful sailing ships of long ago. The docks were the key to Leith’s prosperity now, though there was talk of post-war recession, with shipbuilding and other industries falling into decline, but on a pleasant Sunday afternoon, with people everywhere and one or two cafes open, it was possible to look on the bright side. Maybe even persuade Rusty to cheer up.

  Having looked down at the famous Water of Leith that had its source here, but so often, as now, needed cleaning, they moved on past the old Custom House to find a bench where they could sit. While Rusty stretched out his long legs and took out his cigarettes, Jess cast covert glances over him.

  He had put on a little weight since his return; lost the skeletal appearance of those early days, with even his face appearing not quite so gaunt. Yet he was still painfully thin, still gave the impression that he was not yet over some serious illness. An illness, Jess had finally realised, that came from within, and was the more difficult to treat.

  Drawing on his cigarette, he suddenly turned and caught her gaze.

  ‘What are you thinking, Jess? I’m being unreasonable?’

  ‘I suppose I do think that. Folk have a right to complain when things seem to be going backwards.’

  ‘Maybe, but what they forget when they complain is that they have something a hell of a lot of people have lost.’

  She stared at him, raising her eyebrows.

  ‘I’m talking about their lives,’ he said quietly. ‘Think about it, Jess. All the people who aren’t coming back. All the civilians dead in the raids. Do you know how many died in Japan when we dropped the atomic bombs?’

  ‘If we hadn’t dropped those bombs, there would have been hundreds killed anyway, Rusty. It would have taken years to bring the war in the Far East to an end. That’s what I’ve read.’

  ‘That may be true, and I’ve no sympathy with the Japanese army after the way they treated our prisoners, but the numbers of ordinary folk killed by the bombs were horrendous.’ Rusty’s fingers on his cigarette were trembling. ‘Even smaller numbers of deaths are terrible to think about. Londoners in the Blitz, the people of Coventry, Dresden, Clydebank, nearly every tenement destroyed.’ He shook his head. ‘When I think of how many souls I might have killed myself in bombers, I feel sick, Jess. As though I can’t look at my face in the mirror any more.’

  ‘Rusty – that’s war. It had to be fought, we had to defeat evil. You mustn’t blame yourself.’

  His shadowed eyes turned to her again. ‘You know what, Jess? I was glad to be captured. I was glad to be in that camp. Cabbage soup – what the hell – I wasn’t sending down death any more.’

  ‘And now it’s over,’ she said urgently. ‘Now you can forget, and get on with your life, because that’s what the fighting was for. To let people live their own lives, be free.’

  ‘I’m not free,’ he said in a low voice. ‘I can’t forget.’ He stood up, grinding his cigarette end with his heel. ‘Might as well be a prisoner still.’

  They began to walk slowly back, each locked in thoughts so dark, the people passing by, the sunny afternoon, seemed to fade from their consciousness. But before they reached Great Junction Street, Jess took the courage to speak of something she rarely allowed to surface in her mind.

  ‘Rusty, you know I asked you once – when you’d first come back – how you managed . . .’

  As her voice faltered and died, he gave a wry smile and finished the question for her.

  ‘How I managed, not drinking? Yes, I remember your asking me that. And I told you I survived. Had to.’

  ‘So that was good, wasn’t it? I mean, you used to say you wished you could give it up, and then you did.’

  Her eyes on his face, she waited for him to agree. When he said nothing, something began to beat in her head like some low menacing drum.

  ‘Rusty?’ She waited again. ‘Rusty, that’s true, isn’t it? You had to give it up, and that was good?’

  ‘I want to be honest with you,’ he said at last. ‘Honesty’s what you should have.’

  The drum was so loud, she almost put her hands to her ears, but her voice was a whisper.

  ‘What are you saying? You’d never think of starting again, would you? Never go back to drinking?’

  At first, his eyes would not meet hers, and she cried to him, ‘Look at me, look at me! Tell me you wouldn’t, Rusty. Tell me you would never start drinking again!’

  With an immense effort, he made himself look at her. As he had said, he owed it to her to be honest, to let her read the truth in his unhappy eyes. But when she couldn’t seem to take it in and kept searching his face for comfort, he told her, putting out a hand she would not accept.

  ‘Jess, I already have.’

  ‘There you are, back again!’ cried Addie, hurrying about with tea things. ‘Nice walk? Plenty of people about, I expect? The others wouldn’t stay – had to get back to their sorting out. Derry – is that kettle boiling, then?’

  ‘Just made the tea,’ he called. ‘Rusty, take a seat, you’re looking all in.’

  ‘A piece of my cake’ll brighten him up.’ Addie pulled forward chairs. ‘Come on, Jess, you’re a wee bit pale, too. I always say, too much sun’s no’ good for you.’

  But her eyes on her daughter were sharp, and Jess knew she would soon be trying to find out what was wrong. But Jess would never tell her. Not about this. She would never tell anyone, not even Ben. Though it was possible he knew already.

  Forty-Eight

  As so often before, work was the salvation for Jess. And there was plenty of it. Always something on her desk that required an instant decision. Always letters to be written, accounts to be checked, liaisons with firms or schools to be arranged, new suppliers to be found. And nothing in the post-war world, as everyone was discovering, was easy.

  Sometimes it helped to talk to George Hawthorne, who liked to look in to see her before taking his seat in the circle. Still working for his brother-in-law, he’d had no further trouble with his heart, yet never seemed confident that he would survive.

  ‘Just have to take things easy,’ he’d say. ‘Just have to be careful. Only got one life, you know.’

  And she would say, ‘But might as well be busy, George.’

  She knew he would never let himself be too busy again, and marvelled that he could be so content with his quiet existence, after the way he’d once let work drive him. Perhaps she’d be the same, if she’d had the same brush with death. She didn’t know, didn’t care to think about it. There was already too much in her mind to worry about, and most of it was not to do with work.

  ‘So, what’s nagging at you today?’ George asked, one late summer afternoon, as he drank Edie’s tea in Jess’s office. ‘Now don’t tell me it’s audience figures, for they’re the best ever, eh?’ He smiled. ‘Nothing can beat the movies, Jess.’

  ‘Oh, the figures are wonderful, no doubt about that. My problem is finding the films for people to see.’

  ‘Hollywood on strike again?’

  ‘Have been, but that’s no’ the only thing. The films aren’t getting made because there’s
still so little studio space. You remember how it was in the war, George? How they were always requisitioning studios for something else? Same in America, as it was here?’

  ‘Too right, I remember,’ he said with feeling. ‘We lost a lot of films that way.’

  ‘Well, it’s no’ much better now, which means I’m having to do more and more reruns.’

  ‘And the patrons don’t like too many reruns, of course.’

  ‘And don’t want war films any more, except for the really good ones like The Way to the Stars.’ Jess twirled a pencil thoughtfully. ‘Might try for that one again, maybe. But what folk really want are comedies and musicals. Anything with Danny Kaye or Betty Grable.’

  ‘Ah, yes, Betty Grable’s legs.’ George sighed reminiscently. ‘How much did she insure them for?’

  ‘A lot,’ Jess answered with a laugh, and as they continued their talk, felt the better for it, as she always did. In spite of his willingness to give it all up, George was the only one who knew what she had to do, and took some satisfaction in sharing her problems with her.

  ‘How’s Rusty?’ he asked, leaning on his stick at the door, when he’d finally decided it was time to see his Hitchcock thriller. ‘Settled in well now?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she answered brightly. ‘He’s fine.’

  ‘Hard on these boys, having to take up their lives again. Well, not just the boys, of course. There’s your sister, back in the cafe, eh? Saw her just now – gave me a lovely smile with my coffee.’

  ‘Marguerite’s all right,’ Jess murmured, wondering just a little if she was, and gave George a smile herself as he left to make his way to the circle.

  ‘Enjoy Notorious!’ she cried, and he waved his stick.

  ‘Ingrid Bergman and Cary Grant – what more could a fellow want?’

  Alone again, Jess sat for a few moments, thinking, against her will, of Rusty.

  ‘He’s fine’, she’d told George. If only . . . How could he be fine? How could he be well? When he’d set himself on a path he knew could only lead to disaster? And the irony of it was that he’d been cured. He’d had it in his power to be free of his addiction, and had chosen to throw his freedom away.

  ‘It’s not as bad as it sounds,’ he’d told her that distressing day when they’d walked back from the Shore. ‘It’s only at lunchtimes that I take a drink, Jess, and that’s what half the population of Edinburgh do, I bet you.’

  ‘You can’t afford to take a drink,’ she’d told him bitterly. ‘It’s never going to be one, is it?’

  ‘Look, I can take it or leave it. I’m not an alcoholic, I never was, and in the camp I had to learn to do without it, and I did. So where’s the harm?’

  ‘Where’s the good?’ she’d flared. ‘Why drink at all if you don’t need it?’

  And at that, he’d looked away.

  ‘I do need it,’ he’d said quietly. ‘Just to help me through.’

  ‘Through what?’

  ‘Well, this bad patch.’

  ‘You’ve been home some time, Rusty. Why are you still . . . so unhappy?’ Tears had thickened her voice, as she’d stood aside from people passing. ‘I do all I can . . .’

  ‘Jess, it’s nothing to do with you. It’s just . . . I dunno . . . the world, I guess. It’s what I’ve seen. I told you – I can’t forget.’

  ‘Maybe we could see somebody – to help?’

  ‘They’ll change the world?’ He’d shrugged. ‘No, there’d be no point. But Jess, I don’t want you to think you don’t help me. You do. And I love you.’

  ‘If you’d really loved me,’ she’d told him, her voice still breaking with tears, ‘you wouldn’t have taken that first drink again.’

  Weeks had gone by, and their lives seemed to be ticking by as usual. They still made love, were still outwardly the same happy couple, but for Jess everything had changed. Every lunchtime, she thought of Rusty making for a pub or a bar. Every evening, when he was late back, she’d picture him drinking, and when he returned, would believe she could smell the alcohol on his breath, though to be fair, she could never be sure.

  With hindsight, she now wished she’d arranged to have lunch with him every day, but with her heavy workload and outside commitments, they’d decided it would be too difficult. And perhaps wouldn’t be a good idea, anyway, as husbands and wives didn’t want to live in each other’s pockets, especially when their jobs were so different. Too late to do anything about it now. Rusty had taken his first drink – and many more. There was nothing to be done.

  It was some time later that there was a tap on her door and at her call, Ben put his head round it.

  ‘Ben – come on in,’ she told him, working hard on a smile. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘I was sort of hoping I might do something for you.’ Closing the door behind him, he came to her desk, but did not sit down. ‘I know you’re a very busy woman, but how about meeting for a sandwich somewhere – when you’ve time?’

  ‘A sandwich? At lunchtime?’

  ‘Why not? We haven’t talked in a long time, have we?’

  She studied his handsome face that had just the faintest reminder of a scar beneath his hairline, wondering what this was all about. When had it been usual for her and Ben to spend time talking? Go out for a sandwich together at lunchtime?

  ‘Is Marguerite coming?’ she asked, rising from her desk.

  ‘No, she just likes to get something at the cafe.’

  His very dark brown eyes resting on her face seemed just a little cagey, and it came to her as an inspiration that he wanted to talk to her about Rusty. Almost all the talks they’d ever had, had in fact been about him, and this one she felt certain would be no different. But what should she do? She had vowed to discuss Rusty’s drinking with nobody, yet now it seemed to her that she wouldn’t mind speaking of it to Ben. He’d known about the earlier situation and she knew she could trust him.

  ‘It’s isn’t always easy for me to get away,’ she said slowly. ‘But I’d like to meet you, Ben.’

  ‘Good.’ He briefly touched her hand. ‘You’ve been looking rather down lately, you know. I’ve been worried about you.’

  ‘There’s no need to worry about me.’

  ‘Well, let’s just say you’ll take some time off with me, then. Maybe not have a sandwich. Maybe go somewhere nice for a decent meal. If we can find such a place in these godforsaken times.’

  ‘I’d much prefer a sandwich,’ she said firmly. ‘When do you suggest we go?’

  ‘Day after tomorrow. I’m due on at one, as you know, so we’ll have to make an early start.’

  ‘Suits me. I don’t in any case want to be away too long.’

  ‘I’ll call in here for you, then.’

  ‘That’ll be fine. Thanks, Ben.

  They exchanged long serious looks, then Ben’s features relaxed into a smile and he went out. How careful they’d been, Jess reflected, as she moved back to her desk, never to mention Rusty’s name.

  Forty-Nine

  Two days later, Jess and Ben were facing each other over a small round table outside a West End cafe. The August day was hot and Ben, in cotton shirt and flannels, had taken off his tie, sighing with relief, as a waitress brought their spam and salad, the only thing on the menu, as it turned out.

  ‘Put a tie on specially for you,’ he told Jess, who was looking pleasantly cool in a pale-green dress. ‘Never wear one in the box, as you know.’

  ‘Since when have you dressed up for me?’ she asked with a laugh, hoping to disguise the misgivings she was feeling at having lunch with him and not telling Rusty.

  ‘Ah, well, I knew you’d be smart, and this is quite a decent cafe. Sorry there’s only the same old spam. Not even a decent sandwich!’

  ‘I don’t mind spam and the salad’s just the thing for today.’

  When are we going to cut the small talk? Jess wondered, as she sipped her lemonade. When is he going to start talking about Rusty?

  But the surprise came when he spoke, for it
was not of Rusty, but Marguerite.

  Taking up his knife and fork, keeping his eyes on his plate, he asked quietly if Jess remembered his talking of Marguerite once before?

  ‘When I said I was worried, do you remember?’

  ‘Back in the war? When she was at Drem?’

  ‘That’s right. And you put me in my place. Said I wasn’t trusting enough, and Marguerite had, after all, to trust me.’

  Suddenly, Ben looked up and in those fine eyes she’d once so much admired, Jess read a real anxiety.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked quickly. ‘Why are you bringing this up now, Ben?’

  ‘Because I’m worried again.’ He drank long and deeply of the lager he’d ordered. ‘Not because she’s surrounded by men the way she was at Drem, but because she seems . . . as if she’s changed. Changed towards me. Don’t ask me to say how. I just think she doesn’t feel the same.’

  ‘Ben, I’m sure that’s no’ true . . .’

  ‘Has she said anything to you?’ he asked urgently. ‘Please, tell me, Jess. If there’s something wrong, I want to know. I want to face it. I can’t ask her, I can’t put it into words, because that might make it seem real.’ He laughed lightly and brushed his brow with his hand. ‘Maybe it is, though.’

  ‘Marguerite’s never said anything to me,’ Jess told him earnestly. ‘And I’m sure there’s nothing to tell. Ma sees her all the time. She’d have known, she’d have spoken of it, and she hasn’t.’

  ‘You think I’m worrying about nothing?’

  ‘I think it’s just the post-war thing, Ben. Folk having to adjust and not knowing how. It’s no’ easy, coming back and starting the old life all over again.’

  ‘We never really had any life before wartime,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘But we were always so crazy about each other, I never imagined things would be different when the war was over. Fact is, we’re not getting on. I suppose you’ve seen that?’