by Joan Lingard
‘An awful lot of people died, though,’ said Willa. ‘Twenty thousand.’
‘I don’t suppose they live long in those parts anyway,’ said Tommy’s mother. ‘I’m glad Tommy’s only there for a few days.’
‘Talking about living long,’ said Bunty, ‘did you see in the paper the other day, somebody to do with Sanitary Engineers – I think it was the president – he was saying that the death rate was too low?’
‘You’re haverin’,’ said Ina. ‘How can the death rate be too low? Is he wanting us to kick the bucket early?’
‘He said it was because the more intelligent classes were getting smaller in comparison with the less intelligent and that would not be good for society.’
‘That’s horrible,’ said Willa.
Ina was frowning. ‘Who was he meaning by the less intelligent?’
‘Work it out for yourself, Ina,’ said Bunty.
‘He’s only a stupid old sanitary engineer,’ said Willa and returned to the delights of the tropics.
The beautifully coloured butterflies are very large and the white coral under the water is very pretty. I watched some native women catching fish this morning. They wade breast-deep into the sea and stretch out a dark sheet under the surface of the water. They then throw bait into the sheet and when the fish swim for it they lift the sheet with them trapped inside.
‘I bet the sani man would say those women are less intelligent, but isn’t that clever of them?’ said Bunty.
‘I don’t suppose they can read, though,’ said Ina.
Willa was thinking that the women’s breasts would likely be bare. Would they be wearing anything at all, even down below? She imagined the sailors – well, one, Tommy – gawking, eyes out on stalks. The idea of it bothered her more than she thought it should though why she didn’t know. It was not as if Tommy was going to run off with any of them. However, she did like to hear about the women’s lives in those far-off places. For her, they were the most interesting parts of the letters.
‘He has a rare turn of phrase, does Tommy,’ said his mother. ‘He really should have joined the Evening News. He’s wasted his chances.’
‘I don’t know,’ said her sister. ‘He’s having a great time, gadding about, seeing things we’ll never see.’
‘Leading a fine old life certainly.’ Ina sniffed.
‘You wouldn’t want him to be leading a nasty old one, would you, Ina?’
‘Of course not. But what are they meant to be doing out there?’
‘Showing the flag. Isn’t that what Tommy said.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean? I ken Tommy’s in Signals but he doesn’t stand on the deck all day waving flags, does he?’
‘Of course not,’ put in Willa. ‘He sends signals to other ships. Well, something like that,’ she tailed off.
‘They’re out there to remind them that Britain’s in charge and they’re not to forget it,’ said Bunty, breaking into song and conducting with an imaginary baton. ‘Rule Britannia, Britannia rules the waves. Britons never never never shall be slaves! You can’t argue with that, can you?’
‘I wasn’t arguing about anything.’
Willa had noticed that the sisters often did argue when they got together, in a niggly way, about all sorts of things that they didn’t really care about. She had not had brothers and sisters herself so Tommy’s family had been an eye-opener for her. Her parents had not been arguers and she’d not had siblings to quarrel with.
‘Want to hear some more?’ she asked.
‘Read on, MacDuff!’ said Bunty.
Our stay here is proving extremely pleasant and peaceful. The water is beautifully clear and buoyant and we have had some excellent bathing. On the shore, at low tide, there are all manner of different coloured shells to be seen and gathered. I shall bring some home for Malkie.
‘Malkie will like that, won’t you, son?’ said his grandmother. He was sitting on her knee chewing the handle of a rattle. Willa had refused to let him have a dummy-tit. Ina couldn’t see what was wrong with it but Willa had been adamant. She hated the sight of dummies stuffed into babies’ mouths to shut them up and she said it stopped them talking. Ina had gone ahead anyway and bought one. Willa had been furious and thrown it into the bucket. It was one battle that she had won. ‘It’s nice that your daddy’s thinking about you, isn’t it, Malkie?’ his granny went on.
‘Well, once in a while,’ said Willa.
It was only with the arrival of Tommy’s letters that she’d come to realise what it would mean for Malcolm having a sailor for a father. The Woman’s Book said great care must be taken in the choice of a nurse for the little ones, but it didn’t say anything about taking care to pick the right father. Her child would have a father who would seldom be here, who would appear at intervals, like a hero, bringing excitement into the boy’s life for short spells of time, would kick a football round the Meadows with him, take him to the fun fair at Portobello, then go. Leaving her to pick up the pieces. You should have thought of that before, she could hear her Aunt Lily saying in her ear, saying triumphantly, but she hadn’t thought, had she, she’d allowed herself to be swept away by his handsome looks, the movement of his body against hers as he’d guided her round the dance floor and, of course, his winning smile. A smile that must have conquered other hearts before hers. And perhaps was still doing so.
Yesterday a number of us sailed with some new friends out to a small island off shore. We picnicked and swam and stayed to watch the sunset, which was comprised of the most amazing colours. I have never seen one like it. It was quite hypnotic and made one feel that one could stay there for ever. This could be an ideal place for a quiet and interesting holiday.
‘Tommy makes friends easily,’ said his mother, reflecting what Willa herself was thinking. Very easily. Perhaps it was easier on warm tropical beaches washed by green water. Here, folk kept their coats buttoned up to the neck and hurried on by, muttering a few words of greeting, anxious to get out of the wind.
‘What’s he going on about?’ demanded Bunty. ‘When did he ever want to go anywhere quiet? He likes the bright lights.’
‘He went to North Berwick,’ Willa reminded her.
‘True enough. But he’d other things on his mind, didn’t he?’ Bunty winked.
Yes, he had, thought Willa with a pang. Those three days were the longest stretch of time they’d ever had on their own together. Apart from that, they had been living with his mother. Even in bed Willa had been conscious of the woman across the landing. She never shut her door properly, always left it slightly ajar. For air, she said. They could hear snoring.
‘Well, you wouldn’t catch me going to a place like yon,’ said Ina, nodding at the letter. ‘You’d never know what you’d catch.’ She laughed, as if she’d made a joke. Nobody else joined in.
‘I’d go,’ said Willa. Anywhere. Like a shot. She folded the letter, omitting to read out that Tommy sent his mother his love.
‘Not a hope in hell of that, though, is there?’ said Bunty.
‘No, I don’t suppose there is. Women don’t get many chances to do things, do they? I can’t join the Navy. I don’t even get the vote yet. Not until I’m thirty, another seven years.’
‘What’s up with you?’ Bunty looked at Willa. ‘You need to get out a bit more, hen. Why don’t you come to the flicks with me? I’m going to see Douglas Fairbanks in Robin Hood. It’s on at the New Picture House. Ina’ll mind Malkie, won’t you?’
‘That’s all right by me.’
Willa felt she should turn down the offer; she was worried that she was leaving the baby too often with his grandmother. On the other hand, as she argued to herself, she was with him all evening and all night. He was asleep for most of it of course but she did take him out during the day and she spent time with him alone, feeding him. In The Woman’s Book there was no concern expressed about leaving your child with other people. It was constantly talking about what the baby’s nurse should do and not do, which left you
with the impression that the parents didn’t see an awful lot of him.
‘He might need feeding before I get back,’ said Willa, still hesitating, still tempted. It had been weeks since she’d been at the pictures.
‘I can give him a bottle,’ said Tommy’s mother. ‘Can’t I, Malkie son?’
Willa gave in and went to get her coat. Bunty said she should put on a hat as it was frosty out and they’d probably have to queue, but Willa didn’t like covering her head. She said she had her hair to keep her warm. She had still not had it bobbed even though Pauline told her she was looking old-fashioned every time she saw her. Bunty kept hers shingled. She had bought herself a new cloche hat in Jenners’ sale that fitted snugly round her ears while leaving her earrings free to dangle. She liked to be in the fashion as much as possible though she drew the line when it came to binding her chest with bandages to flatten it. It would take some doing to flatten her chest! To complete her outfit, she slung her fox tippet around her neck. Willa hated the sight of the fox’s beady eye. She felt it was glaring at her.
‘Let’s go!’ cried Bunty, taking Willa’s arm. She needed support in those shoes she was wearing. The heels were too high, making her tilt forward, and the straps were biting into the fronts of her plump ankles. Fashion would always take precedence over comfort as far as Bunty was concerned. Time enough for that when you’re dead, she said.
They took the tram down to Princes Street. A queue had already formed outside the cinema by the time they arrived. Queuing was part of the outing. They joined on the end. The commissionaire, smart in his gold-buttoned uniform, walked up and down the line, looking important and keeping order. There were occasions when he had to clip a young lad round the ear. Bunty greeted him with a ‘How’re you doin’ the day, Jocky?’, which did not please him. He liked to maintain his dignity and he didn’t want any of the others in the queue to start calling him by his first name and being cheeky. Bunty knew him well; he bought his cigarettes from her and she sometimes allowed him to have them on tick.
‘Hey, there’s your young man, Willa?’ Bunty leant out from the queue to get a better view. ‘He’s four or five ahead of us.’
‘He’s not my young man,’ said Willa in a low voice. ‘How many times do I have to tell you?’
She had seen him twice again in the library. The first time, she had managed to slip away while he was writing at a desk; the second, he’d come out with her and they had walked down the road, as before, and talked about books and parted in Lauriston Place. She had supposed, since he was still coming to the library during the day, that he had not got the job he’d been applying for, but she had not asked. She thought it must be depressing when people kept asking.
He appeared to have heard Bunty for he turned and looked round and, being taller than anyone near him, he saw them. Bunty stood up on her toes to wave, he waved back and detached himself from the queue, giving up his place, and came to join them. Bunty shifted over and made room for him.
‘Thought I recognised you! It’s Mr Fitzwilliam, isn’t it?’
‘Richard, please.’
‘Do you never get Dick or Dickie?’
‘No, not really.’
‘Richard is nicer. It’s more manly, isn’t it, Willa?’
Willa did not reply.
The queue shuffled forward. Bunty chatted to Richard about pictures she’d seen. She thought Charlie Chaplin a great laugh and, as for Valentino, well, he was every woman’s idea of a good lover, wasn’t he? Mind you, Douglas Fairbanks was all right too. She wouldn’t say no to a night with him. Willa squirmed and Richard murmured politely. He appeared to have seen most of the films that Bunty had. She went to the pictures at least twice a week. Willa didn’t speak.
They only had to queue for forty minutes before it was their turn to be waved by Jocky into the shining interior.
‘We’re going to the Balcony,’ said Bunty, laying out two and sixpence for herself and Willa. It had been agreed beforehand. ‘I had a wee win on the dogs last night. Ever go down to Powderhall, Richard?’
He shook his head.
‘Is that all right?’ asked Willa, meaning going to the dearer seats. ‘Of course,’ he replied, though she wondered if he might not have meant to go to the stalls if he’d been by himself. The downtown cinemas were dearer than the local ones like La Scala, commonly known as the Scabby Lala.
Richard ended up in the middle, between the two women. Bunty said with one man and two women it made sense.
They’d come in in the middle of the film so that they had to stay and see it right round again. Throughout, Willa was conscious of Richard sitting next to her and once or twice when she moved her leg, or he his, they brushed against each other’s and both simultaneously apologised. Apart from that, they did not communicate. Along with the rest of the audience, Bunty cheered on Robin Hood and his merry men shouting out, ‘Come on, Dougie, you can do it!’ and she laughed heartily at the cartoons, digging Richard in the side every now and then, saying, ‘Isn’t that a scream!’
When they finally emerged, warm and flushed, Bunty proposed going up to the café for an ice cream.
‘It’s on me.’
‘I really should get back for Malcolm,’ said Willa.
‘Ina’ll give him a bottle. She’ll be in her element.’
Richard turned to Willa. ‘Have you got a baby?’
‘He’s four months old.’
‘Bright as a button,’ said Bunty, but refrained from adding, ‘Just like his dad,’ which Willa suspected had been on the tip of her tongue. Perhaps it would have been better if she had come out with it for then the fact that she had a husband would be clearly established.
‘Well, shall we go?’ Bunty took an arm of each of them and propelled them up the stairs.
Willa said she would have to go to the ladies first and Bunty joined her. While they were waiting in the queue, Willa said,
‘You shouldn’t encourage him, Bunty.’
‘Encourage him, to do what? I just thought it would be nice for us to have a bit of different company. What’s the harm in that? Relax, love. You’ve got me as your chaperone!’
He was waiting outside the door for them. They had to queue again for the café but, finally, they were taken to a table and Bunty ordered three vanilla ices with raspberry sauce.
‘That’ll cool us down a bit.’ Her face was flushed. She lit a cigarette and leant back in her chair. ‘So tell us about yourself, Richard.’
‘Not much to tell,’ he started, but Bunty interrupted saying she didn’t believe him and gave him one of her winks. ‘I grew up in Edinburgh,’ he went on after a moment, looking flushed himself now.
‘And where did you go to school?’
‘Heriot’s.’
‘Heriot’s, Willa! I told you he came from a good family.’
Willa was uncomfortable, on two accounts: Bunty’s determination to give Richard the third degree, and a certain dampness she was beginning to feel in her chest area. She was leaking milk, in spite of the fact that she’d tucked a piece of flannel inside her brassiere before coming out. She tried to keep her arms across her breasts and prayed that they would be served quickly. About Bunty she could do nothing, for once she’d got the bit between her teeth there was no holding her back.
‘So, what does your father do, if I might be so bold as to ask, Richard?’
Richard was embarrassed. Perhaps his father was dead or he’d never had one.
‘I hope they won’t take long,’ said Willa, glancing round to see if she could pick out their waitress. ‘They seem to be awfully slow here.’
Bunty was looking expectantly at Richard.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘he used to have an accountancy business.’
‘An accountant, eh? They do all right.’
‘He went bankrupt,’ Richard continued hurriedly. ‘He made one or two unwise investments.’
‘What a shame,’ said Bunty.
‘So we had to move out of our house in the Grang
e to a flat in Lauriston. And I had to leave university.’
‘What were you studying?’ asked Willa.
‘English literature.’
‘That explains it. How you know so much about books.’
He smiled and for the first time that evening so did she.
‘Did you read Pride and Prejudice?’ He’d recommended it when he’d seen her last.
‘Oh, I did. I liked it a lot. I’m going to read it again.’
‘That’s a mark of a good book. So my mother says,’ he added awkwardly.
Bunty did not like this turn in the conversation. She hadn’t finished with her questioning. ‘What do you plan to do with your life now then, Richard?’
‘He’d like to be a writer.’ Willa answered for him. ‘Well, he is a writer. He writes.’ They smiled at each other again.
‘What kind of a writer?’ asked Bunty.
‘A novelist.’
‘That Edgar Wallace makes a mint, so I’ve heard.’
‘I don’t know that I’ll be writing like him.’
‘You could do worse,’ pronounced Bunty. ‘Much worse. Take it from me.’
‘He’s got to write about what inspires him,’ said Willa.
‘You’re right, Willa.’ He nodded. ‘You understand.’
‘You can’t live off fresh air, mind,’ said Bunty.
Willa was pleased to see their waitress coming towards them bearing a tray set with three little silver dishes. By this time the milk was trickling down her front and she was worried that they might be able to smell it or see the damp patches on her blouse. She ate her ice cream quickly and reached for her coat.
‘I really must go. I don’t like leaving Malcolm too long.’
‘Hang on!’ cried Bunty. ‘You’ve no’ got a train to catch. Wait for us!’
‘Are you walking?’ asked Richard, once they were out in the street.
‘If you are, we are,’ cried Bunty gaily.
They walked three abreast, with Richard in the middle. Bunty took his arm. ‘You don’t mind, do you, Richard? It’s these pavements, the council should do something about them.’ Willa walked on her own, keeping close to the shop windows, pretending to take an interest in them. They reached the west end of Princes Street and turned up Lothian Road, Bunty chatting all the way.
