After You've Gone

by Joan Lingard

  Including Tommy. Well, of course including Tommy. He wasn’t going to lie in his bunk and stare at the ceiling, was he? She didn’t care what the thousands were up to. Let them get on with it. Let their wives and sweethearts worry about them. She could only see her husband, his feet stepping deftly in and out between his partner’s slender feet in their soft leather, ankle-strapped, high-heeled shoes, his hand positioned on the small of her back, holding her, guiding her, turning her, whirling her, spinning her to right and to left, round and round, round and round, until he is laughing and she is laughing, her cheeks flushed, her eyes locked with his. And then he starts to sing. Let me be your sweetheart…

  She must stop this! It wasn’t doing her any good, all this imagining, torturing herself. What had happened to her motto: what you don’t know doesn’t hurt you? There would be no holding Tommy back when it came to dancing; she had to live with that. According to Bunty, he’d got it from his father, who’d also had a way with girls on the dance floor. ‘Twinkle Toes’, they used to call him, or at least Bunty had. Twinkling toes and twinkling eyes, she said. Ina hadn’t cared for his nickname. What Willa found difficult was trying to conjure up an image of Ina as his dancing partner. There were no photographs either of him or the two of them around the flat, not even of their wedding. She’d asked her once if she had any and Ina had said dismissively that she’d put them away when he died. ‘No point in harking back,’ she’d said. If it weren’t for Tommy, Willa would have questioned the existence of Roberto Costello.

  ‘Is that all?’ asked Ina, nodding at the letter.

  ‘No, there’s plenty more.’

  Everything has been thrown open free to the fleet: trams, theatres, dancing, cinemas. We can have anything we want! Talk about being spoiled!

  ‘Anything they want,’ echoed Ina. ‘Wouldn’t that be nice, even for a day?’

  They were quiet, thinking about it.

  The hospitality of the people is beyond praise. They all seem well-to-do, as they were in South Africa, with lovely homes and well-kept gardens. The difficulty for us is in accepting all the kind invitations that come pouring in, for motor runs, picnics, parties, lunches, dinners. We can take our pick of the picnics! Motor cars arrive daily at the pier offering to take us into the countryside.

  The men would be at work during the day, Willa presumed, in order to pay for the lovely homes and gardens, so it must be wives and unmarried women who drove down to the pier with offers of lunch and runs into the country. Did they vie for the most handsome of the men? Did they vie for Tommy? He’d be high up on their list. Perhaps, if the women were so well off, they would have chauffeurs and then they could sit in the back seat with the sailors.

  ‘I don’t really know about all this,’ said Ina, shaking her head. ‘They never seem to be doing any work.’

  ‘They must, in between times.’ In between their various pleasures. ‘Scrub the decks and so forth.’

  ‘Tommy wouldn’t be doing that! Not as a yeoman of signals.’

  Willa was often puzzled as to what he did do. He couldn’t be sending signals to ships all day long. She knew that it had been a hard life for him in the beginning, as a fourteen-year-old able seaman. Conditions had been harsh, discipline severe, and he’d been maltreated by some of the older men. Once he’d got into Signals it had become a bit easier, except, of course, during the war. She hadn’t known Tommy in those days but Ina said it had been a terrible time for her, she’d been half off her head with worry, and relieved when he’d been torpedoed and brought back to a nursing home in Edinburgh to convalesce. She had been one of the lucky mothers. So many young men had died in that dreadful war! Look at Mrs Bain in the next stair. Both of her boys were gone. And for what? Still, one thing, it had been so awful that there’d never be another. They’d been told there wouldn’t. And if they hadn’t fought the last war they might be living under occupation now and having to speak German.

  A route march was given by the squadron through the streets of Melbourne which were packed with people. The scene was one of wildest joy, with everyone cheering and waving. Employers gave their employees time off to witness the march. Many did not return to their work afterwards.

  ‘It must cost a pretty penny trailing them all round the world like that, mind,’ said Ina.

  ‘You’re right. They could spend some of it feeding kids like the MacNabs.’

  They no longer handed in food across the landing. The last time Willa had gone to the door Mr MacNab had answered and he’d taken the bottle of milk from her and flung it against the wall, telling her that they didn’t want her charity and she could stick it up her backside. Ina, who’d been standing in their doorway with the baby in her arms, had gasped at his audacity. He had then slammed the door in Willa’s face. She had had to clean the mess up, collect the shards of glass and wash the walls and the steps, for he wasn’t going to do it. Even then, she thought she smelt sour milk on the stair for days afterwards and she kept seeing little glittering splinters tucked away in corners.

  ‘Anything else?’ asked Ina.

  ‘Regattas are held at Henley on the river and there is a fine racecourse at Flemington where the race for the Melbourne Cup is held.’

  They had a racecourse just outside Edinburgh, at Musselburgh, that neither of them had ever visited. Gerry had gone once and bought himself a pair of opera glasses for the occasion, which had annoyed Elma. She’d been proved right: he’d never go to the races again, nor to the opera, either, so they’d ended up being a waste of money. They suspected Gerry had lost a lot of money at Musselburgh. He’d been very quiet about it, whereas, if he’d won or come out even, he’d have talked.

  They were recalling Gerry at the races when the bell rang and who was at the door but the man himself, with a blood-stained parcel in his hand.

  ‘We were talking about you there,’ said Willa, taking him in.

  ‘No wonder my ears were burning coming up the stairs.’

  ‘We were remembering how you lost the family fortune at Musselburgh,’ said Ina, who had lifted Malcolm out of his chair and had him on her knee. ‘He was getting restless,’ she said to Willa.

  ‘I’ve brought you some round steak, a tasty bit of liver – your favourite, Ina – and some potted head.’ Gerry passed the parcel over to Willa.

  He turned his attention to Malcolm. ‘You’re getting to be a right wee lad now, aren’t you?’ He held out his arms. ‘Coming to Uncle Gerry?’ He squatted down and put his face close to the baby’s. His nose was very red, from either the cold or the drink, perhaps both, and there were bristles on his chin, which probably meant that he had left the house before his wife was up. If she had been she’d have nagged him to shave before appearing in public. She had her standards, as they were continually reminded.

  Malcolm let out a wail and his face crumpled. Then he swivelled round on his granny’s knee so that he could hide in her pillowy bosom. His little hands clung to her shoulders.

  ‘There, there, Malkie son,’ said his grandmother, rocking him and stroking his silky dark head. ‘Granny’s not going to give you away to any big bad man.’

  ‘Turn him round, Ina,’ said Willa, restraining herself from seizing her child from his grandmother’s arms, ‘so that he can see Gerry properly and get to know him.’

  ‘And find out I’m no monster,’ laughed Gerry, though Willa saw he looked hurt.

  ‘He’s just at that stage,’ she said apologetically.

  ‘He’s not used to men,’ said Ina.

  ‘No, he’s not,’ said Willa, ‘with his father on the other side of the world. Down under.’

  ‘It’s not Tommy’s fault,’ said his mother. ‘He has to go where he’s told.’

  Willa pushed up the window and put the meat in the outside wall safe, then ran her hands under the hot tap to remove the blood stains. She turned back to Ina.

  ‘Malcolm needs a nap. He’s overtired. I’m going to put him down in his cot.’

  ‘He can have a wee snooze
here with me.’

  ‘He’ll get a better sleep in his cot.’

  Willa reached out for him and Tommy’s mother reluctantly surrendered the child. He didn’t come without a protest; he tried to cling to his granny and he flailed with his legs, landing a few blows to his mother’s stomach.

  ‘You see,’ she said, ‘he’s beyond himself.’

  She carried him, still struggling, through to her room and closed the door. She was seething and wanted to let it out in a scream but she had to calm down as that wouldn’t do the baby any good. She took the chair by the window and opened her blouse. He subsided once he’d got the nipple in his mouth and after a few sucks his eyelids closed and his mouth parted releasing her breast. She sat for a few minutes rocking him and crooning softly. Golden slumbers close your eyes…She longed to be able to take him away, to live in a little place of their own, just the two of them, until his daddy came back and made them three. But how could she afford that?

  It was April. Tommy wouldn’t be home until October. How was she going to get through all those months? And then what? He’d be home for three or four weeks before he was off again, to see the world.

  She lifted Malcolm into his cot and tucked the covers gently round him. He’d sleep for an hour or more. She’d have time for a quick visit to the library.

  ‘He’s asleep,’ she told Ina, ‘so don’t be lifting him unless he wakens.’

  Ina did not respond. She rose from the table and started to wash the few dishes that lay in the sink, splashing water up over the bunker. She was in the huff. Well, let her be.

  Gerry was finishing a cup of tea. He set the cup in the saucer and got up, saying he’d give Willa a hurl up to the library.

  His van was sitting outside, smelling meaty from the parcels in the back. He didn’t usually do deliveries himself but his man was off sick. ‘Somebody’s got to do it. Business is business, eh?’

  There was a log jam of trams round the clock. A cable had broken and the repair men were on the job. In addition, a brewer’s cart had spilled some barrels across the road. They would have to wait until the mess cleared.

  ‘It can’t be easy for you,’ said Gerry, ‘living with Ina.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Willa.

  ‘She means well. You’ve got to stand up to her. But I’m sure you’ll not let her walk over you. You’re too strong-minded a lass, Willa.’

  The trams were gradually beginning to shunt forward again. Gerry let in the clutch and as he did so his hand brushed against Willa’s leg. She moved it away and looked out of the window and made a comment about the traffic jam. It had probably been accidental; she hoped that it was for she liked Gerry and thought he was a decent man and she wanted it to stay that way.

  He pulled up outside the library door.

  ‘If you ever need any help, Willa, you know you can come to me. Money, anything. Anything at all.’

  ‘Thanks, Gerry.’ She had her hand on the door handle. ‘And thanks for the lift.’

  ‘Don’t forget!’

  She slammed the door and waved to him as he drove away. It was a relief to walk under the sign saying LET THERE BE LIGHT and enter a peaceful, book-lined room. She was looking forward to a cup of tea and a chat with Richard about Persuasion.

  He was not at his usual table. As soon as she had returned her books she took a quick tour round the bays. She couldn’t see him! There had been two or three times before when he’d not been in. She couldn’t expect him to coincide with her every single time. But today of all days! Her disappointment was acute and she was surprised by that. She went round all the departments: to make sure: music, art, reference. She returned to fiction and picked two books off the shelves: The Garden Party, stories by Katherine Mansfield, and, feeling like something lightweight, an Edgar Wallace thriller, The Four Just Men. She chose them quickly, unable to concentrate today.

  She took them to his table and began reading one of the Mansfield stories but she couldn’t quite get into it in the way that she normally did when she opened a book. Every time the door opened she looked up.

  After a few minutes she decided to abandon it. She had her books stamped and set off back along George IV Bridge, thinking that she might meet him on the road. If she did she could give him his mother’s copy of My Antonia, which she had brought in her message bag, wrapped in brown paper. She’d been terrified of staining the cover.

  She was waiting on the corner of Forrest Road, about to cross, when she saw him coming up Middle Meadow Walk. He was with a woman, an older woman in a long dark-blue coat and a wide-brimmed hat. She must be his mother. She was tall, almost as tall as her son, and stately. She held herself well. She would be a formidable campaigner. She would command attention. Willa had a vision of her standing full square, facing a police horse, refusing to give way.

  Richard had his arm linked through his mother’s, and they were talking, heads slightly inclined, engrossed in their conversation. It looked like intelligent talk. She was obviously not asking him if he’d fancy a haddie for his tea. Willa stepped back into a doorway.

  As they reached the top of the walk they paused but continued to talk earnestly and, on Richard’s part, avidly. Even from across the street Willa could see that his mother had what Bunty and Ina would call ‘class’.

  Richard and his mother were not of her class: that was what Willa thought as she stood furtively watching them. She felt shabby in her old winter coat and scuffed shoes. Even if she were single she could not imagine Mrs Fitzwilliam finding her a suitable companion for her son.

  She waited until they had set off again. They had not seen her on the other side of the road; they had been too absorbed in each other. Once the way was clear Willa walked slowly home, resolved to end her friendship with Richard.

  ~ 11 ~

  Sydney, New South Wales,

  Australia

  11th April, 1924

  Dear Willa,

  We received an absolutely wonderful welcome here. They’ d been waiting on the shore and on the hillsides while others were packed into boats. They cheered at the tops of their voices. It is heart-warming to know that His Majesty and his fleet are held in such high esteem. The Hood and the Repulse looked majestic as they made the short twists and turns that this beautiful harbour is noted for.

  Well, of course, they would get a wonderful welcome, wouldn’t they? What if one time people were to start hissing and booing as they came sailing into harbour? Or pelt them with rotten eggs, all over their nice clean white uniforms? That would be a big surprise for His Majesty’s Special Service Squadron. But they hadn’t done it, not there, in Sydney, Australia. Australia, according to Tommy, was one of Britain’s most loyal colonies.

  ‘It’s amazing how many places in the world do belong to us,’ said Ina. ‘Makes you feel proud.’

  ‘Does it?’ asked Bunty.

  ‘Does it what?’

  ‘Really make you feel proud to be British?’

  ‘Well, why not?’

  ‘You’ve never been to London. You’ve never been out of Scotland, woman! You’re a Scot.’

  Willa had never been across the border either. Bunty had gone to Blackpool once with Mr Parkin and had had a great time, had come back and said the lights were out of this world. Their relationship was going on as before, now that he had got over his disappointment at her turning down his offer of matrimony. Elma had strongly disapproved of her sister Bunty going off for an illicit weekend with a man she wasn’t married to, though Bunty swore they’d had separate rooms at the bed and breakfast. ‘Believe that if you will,’ was what Ina had said, arms folded underneath her bosom.

  ‘Carry on, Willa,’ she said now, giving Bunty a frosty look.

  Sydney was founded in 1788 and named after Viscount Sydney, who suggested colonising it when it became a British possession. The population is about a million today. It has beautiful buildings, two cathedrals, art galleries, an observatory, zoological gardens and extensive parks for strolling in. The shore around P
ort Jackson abounds with delightful coves, wooded bays and surf beaches, ideal places for picnics. They put on a wonderful spread for us wherever we go. Cold meats, chicken, fish, salmon (fresh, not tinned), crabs, lobster, stuffed eggs, fruits, sumptuous desserts. It makes your mouth water just to see it all laid out.

  They fell silent at the prospect. Ina found her voice first.

  ‘I suppose it’ll taste much the same, in and out the tin, salmon.’

  ‘Amazing how fond they are of picnics,’ said Bunty. ‘I’ve never cared for them myself.’

  ‘Me, either.’ For once the sisters were in agreement. ‘You can get sand on your sandwiches!’

  Ina laughed but Bunty did not. Willa managed a weak smile.

  ‘All that sitting on the ground freezes your bum off,’ said Bunty.

  It would be warm sitting on the beach at Port Jackson. And then there were the coves, full of delight, tucked away out of sight…

  Willa went back to the letter.

  The flora is wonderful and varied, which fact led Captain Cook to name the adjoining bay Botany Bay.

  ‘I’ve heard of that,’ said Ina. ‘Botany Bay. Didn’t a lot of convicts get sent there?’

  ‘Don’t suppose Tommy’ll have met any,’ said Bunty with a wink at Willa. ‘So you’ll not need to lie awake fretting on that score.’

  Willa read on.

  The resources of Australia are rich and numerous with plenty of room for new people who want to get on and are prepared to work hard. They have no time for slackers. Their policy, which, I think, is the correct one, is to have the country populated with white working people instead of having black workers with white masters, as in South Africa, for instance. To this end immigration is invited and carefully scrutinised whilst coloured races are excluded by a number of street laws. This is a wonderful country with wonderful people.