by Joan Lingard
‘Don’t see why not,’ said Bunty. ‘They’re dark, aren’t they? I wouldn’t mind if somebody called me a whitey. What’s wrong with that?’
Willa was not going to take this argument on so she went back to the letter.
Each day a military band plays soothing airs during the sticky afternoon heat until the sun sets and Pacific breezes stir the city to life. Illuminated arches and buildings, music, gaudy uniforms, dark-eyed señoritas and crowded restaurants are all part of the pulsating night life of this tropical capital.
‘It’s a different life,’ sighed Mrs Mooney. ‘Sometimes you wonder if you shouldn’t just pick up sticks and go. What about it, Gerry?’
‘I couldn’t stick the heat,’ said Gerry. ‘It’d bring me out in a rash.’
‘It’s the ginger hair,’ said Bunty.
One day we were taken by train into the mountains. The scenery en route was a grand sight, the rugged mountains looking insurmountable but made possible by many switchback and V-shaped shuntings. Some parts of the journey were rather thrilling as when the train would shoot out of a tunnel straight onto a narrow bridge spanning a valley hundreds of feet below. Our destination, Rio Blanco, is 12,000 feet above sea level and a number of the men suffered from altitude sickness, though not myself.
‘I’d have given that a miss,’ said Bunty. ‘It’s quite a nice run though on the train to North Berwick.’
None of the family, except, of course, for the world traveller, had been on any other train line. Willa didn’t know about Mrs Mooney.
‘It goes on for two or three pages about the mountains,’ she said, leafing through them.
The doorbell rang and she got up to answer it. Richard stood on the landing.
‘Hello there!’ he said and they kissed. Since Willa had left Ina’s house it had been easier for them to see each other though they were still careful, or relatively so, not to be seen out and about in the area too much.
The assembled company greeted him warmly, apart from Malcolm, who looked up from Gerry’s shiny, ticking watch to scowl.
‘I’ll make you a nice cup of tea, love,’ said Mrs Mooney, getting up. When Richard was around she put on what she considered to be a posh accent. They all thought him terribly polite. ‘I’m sure Gerry could do with one too. Or maybe we should all have a wee drinkie instead?’
‘I ought to be going,’ said Gerry, without making a move. Mrs Mooney’s house seemed to have that affect on people; once they settled in they were reluctant to stir. Her chairs were comfortable and her hospitality generous.
‘Have you shut the shop, Bunty?’ asked Willa.
‘Aye, I closed a wee bit early. All my papers had gone and most of the regulars had been in for their smokes.’
‘What’ll it be?’ asked Mrs Mooney. ‘G and T?’
‘Suits me,’ said Gerry.
‘All round,’ said Bunty.
Willa helped Mrs Mooney by slicing the lemons. Maureen liked to do things nicely. She set the drinks out on little lace doilies that had been crocheted by her old grandmother in County Clare. Malcolm was given a mug of orange juice and a digestive biscuit and put back in his high chair. When he was allowed to roam free he pestered Maureen’s wee Pekinese, Daffy, making him yelp.
‘Well,’ said Gerry, raising his glass, ‘here’s tae us, wha’s like us, damn few, and they’re a’ deid!’
‘Nary a one,’ said Bunty.
They drank.
Richard sat beside Willa on the settee holding her hand, but unobtrusively, so that Malcolm would not notice. They made no effort to conceal their attachment for each other to the adults. ‘I don’t suppose I should approve,’ Bunty had said to Willa, ‘but to be honest, I don’t blame you. Life’s too short to pass up a bit of happiness. And I can see the two of you are happy together.’
It was warm in the room even with the window open so they were not long in finishing their drinks. August, so far, had been a kind month.
‘A little more?’ asked Mrs Mooney, coming round with the gin bottle. She was not known for pouring small drinks.
The doorbell rang and Gerry looked startled.
‘Dinne fash yersel!’ said Bunty. ‘She doesne know you’re here. This is Maureen’s secret hideaway!’
The householder herself went to the door. The caller was only a neighbour wanting to borrow a bowl of sugar which Maureen supplied.
‘She’s always borrowing, that one, never returning.’
‘Ina’s got one of them too,’ said Bunty.
They settled down again.
Malcolm’s head gradually began to droop and he dozed off. Willa lifted him out and took him through to the bedroom and laid him down in the cot, on loan from yet another of Bunty’s customers.
After their third drink Bunty declared herself to be ‘well away’. She was needing food to sober her up. Richard and Willa’s offer to go out and buy fish and chips was accepted. Gerry supplied the money.
Outside the flat door, on the landing, they stopped to kiss before going down the stair and out into the bright street, hand-in-hand. A secret romance in summertime was so much more difficult than in winter when the dark came early.
As they approached the chip shop Willa dropped Richard’s hand.
‘Don’t stand too close to me in the shop. Just in case. Anyway, they know me in there.’
She pulled back from the door just in time. Ina was at the counter. Her back was unmistakable. She had on her old fawn felt slippers with the pompons which wobbled when she walked. Willa heard her ask for a black pudding and a small bag of chips, saying, ‘It’s just for me, I’m on my own,’ and for the first time since leaving her Willa felt a stab of guilt. Then she told herself that Tommy’s mother wasn’t her responsibility and she owed her nothing, especially when she’d all but stolen her child from her. She pulled Richard round the corner and they waited until Ina came rolling out of the shop carrying her supper wrapped in newspaper. She was walking badly, listing to one side like a ship off its keel. Her legs must be troubling her. The sight touched Willa and a wave of guilt swept over her again.
‘What’s wrong?’ asked Richard. He was aware of every change in her mood, unlike Tommy, who wouldn’t notice even if she was right down in the dumps.
‘Nothing.’ She shrugged it off.
When Ina had limped out of sight, they went inside.
‘Five fish suppers,’ said Willa, laying the money on the counter. ‘And plenty of salt and sauce.’
‘You must be having a party,’ said Lorenzo as he dug his shovel into the vat of hot, golden, tantalising chips.
‘Every day’s a party,’ said Richard, who had forgotten that he was not supposed to come too close to Willa. He had slipped his arm round her waist and his hand was resting on her hip.
‘Lucky you!’ said Lorenzo.
‘Yes, lucky me,’ said Richard with a smile.
~ 23 ~
Valparaiso, Chile
South America
11th August, 1924
Dear Willa,
As we steamed into harbour the Delhi saluted the country with a 21-gun salute, which was returned by the shore battery. The Chilean man-of-war Esmeralda then saluted Rear-Admiral Brand with an 18-gun salute, which was returned by the Delhi.
‘They could go on all day at that rate,’ said Bunty. ‘They like playing themselves, don’t they?’
This may not be British territory but we have been made very welcome even if not so boisterously perhaps as in places like Melbourne and Adelaide. But then they are our colonies.
‘At least we got free,’ said Mrs Mooney.
‘How do you mean?’ asked Bunty.
‘Ireland. We’re the Irish Free State now! You must have read about it in the papers? Back in 1921.’
‘Aye, of course. I was forgetting. The bit in the north doesn’t belong to you though, does it?’
‘Not yet,’ said Mrs Mooney.
Vicuna rugs (made from the fur of the S. American wild deer) can be purchased f
or little money, also brightly coloured wool rugs woven by the Indians which looked as if they would wear well. I considered buying one but decided the colours would be too vivid for our flat.
‘For his mother’s flat,’ said Willa, speaking her thoughts aloud. She wondered what Tommy would think if he knew she had left it. It was all right for him: the flat was only a port of call, amongst many others.
‘I saw Ina yesterday,’ said Bunty. ‘She’s missing you and the wee one.’
‘It’s not me she misses.’
‘She’s gone downhill since you left.’
‘Don’t be making Willa feel guilty,’ said Mrs Mooney. ‘It’s not her fault.’
‘No, I ken.’ Bunty sighed. ‘Ina’s her own worst enemy. She’d drive anyone up the wall. I couldne live with her if you paid me.’
Willa went back to the letter. ‘He says Chile has had a violent history and a number of bad earthquakes, the last one apparently in 1906 when Valparaiso was almost completely destroyed. That’s not that long ago.’
‘Just as well Ina didn’t hear any of that! She’d be up the wall in case Tommy got caught in one. She’s been worrying herself sick because the letters had stopped so I let her know they were coming to the shop.’
‘They are addressed to me,’ Willa pointed out, ‘not her.’
‘I ken. She asked if there were any messages for her in them so I told her Tommy always sends her his love.’
Yesterday, Sunday, we had the ordinary church service in the forenoon and during the last dog watch a memorial service to keep our memories green of the sinking of HMS Good Hope and HMS Monmouth by the Germans on 1st November 1914 when Sir Christopher Craddock and many officers and men lost their lives in doing their duty. We practically passed the spot, off Coronel, where the ships went down. It was a sobering moment. I trust that the widows and children of these brave men are not in need today.
Bunty snorted. ‘You must be jokin’. One of my customers, a Mrs Jackson – her husband died in France – has four bairns and is hard pushed to feed them.’
Then there was Mr MacNab, thought Willa.
‘It’s all very well,’ said Bunty, ‘doing their duty, but who cares afterwards? Not the damned politicians. Thank God we’re done with the war now.’
‘Sounds like Tommy might be getting interested in religion,’ said Mrs Mooney. ‘Two services in a day. I didn’t think he’d be the religious type.’
‘They’ve no option,’ said Willa. ‘They have to do their duty to God as well as King and Country. Doesn’t matter if they believe in it or not.’ Richard had told her that his mother was an atheist. She belonged to the Humanist Society. Richard said he was still trying to make up his mind.
There was a crash in the walk-in cupboard off the kitchen; they’d forgotten that Malcolm was on the loose. Willa jumped up and went to see what damage had been done. Malcolm was holding up half of a blue and gold oval-shaped dish looking for approval.
‘Naughty boy!’ said Willa.
He began to cry.
She took the piece of china out of his hand and carried it as well as him back to the kitchen.
‘I’m terribly sorry, Maureen.’
‘Oh no!’ cried Maureen. ‘That belonged to my mother and my granny before her!’
‘Maybe it could be mended,’ suggested Bunty. ‘Stuck together. I’ve a customer who’s good at things like that.’
‘It’d never be the same.’
There was no hope of sticking anything together, Willa saw, when she went back to the cupboard and found the other half of the dish lying in fragments on the floor. She apologised again to Maureen and took Malcolm out for a walk in his pram. She was also going to see if she could find a room to rent within her budget.
Crossing the Meadows she had the ill luck to meet Richard’s mother, who raised an eyebrow at the pram and said, ‘I didn’t know you had a child as well!’
As well as what, Willa wondered. All her other drawbacks?
‘Have you a husband?’
‘I think that is my business.’
Richard’s mother smiled. ‘Well, I don’t think you’ll be seeing much of Richard after September.’ The little smile still curling her lips, she sailed on past.
What had she meant by that? At the end of September the fleet would be due back in Chatham but Richard’s mother couldn’t have been referring to that, could she? Richard wouldn’t have told her. No, of course he wouldn’t. His mother hadn’t even known if Willa was married or not. Willa had been trying not to think ahead, had been living a day at a time. The end of September had always seemed a long way away. But now it was almost the end of August.
She pushed the pram up Middle Meadow Walk and along Forrest Road to the library where she lifted Malcolm out and carried him inside. She did a tour of the building but saw no sign of Richard. She asked the nice librarian if she’d seen him but she shook her head, saying he hadn’t been in for a day or two.
Willa pushed the pram back down the hill and went to see if Bunty had any cards on her window offering rooms to rent.
‘There’s a couple nearby,’ said Bunty. ‘But goodness knows what they’re like. I’ll keep the wee one if you want while you go and have a look. I realise you can’t stay at Maureen’s much longer.’
Malcolm liked Bunty so he made no protest when Willa left him sitting in his pram inside the shop. As soon as she was out of sight Bunty would give him a piece of chocolate.
The first room was in a flat in Fountainbridge and it was horrible; Willa could think of no other word to describe it. The wallpaper was peeling off the walls, a wide crack zigzagged across the ceiling, and there was a single gas ring for cooking. In addition, the place smelt of grease. Willa looked into the toilet of the shared bathroom and blenched.
‘You can have a bath on Saturday nights,’ said the landlady. ‘That’s when I put the boiler on.’
‘I’ll let you know,’ said Willa.
The second room in Bread Street was no better. The wallpaper was intact but the bed sagged as if it were filled with sand when Willa pressed her hand into it and the window looked down into what appeared to be a knacker’s yard. This place smelt of mould. As for the bathroom! The smell alone would nearly knock you off your feet.
‘I have three other lodgers at present,’ said the landlady. ‘They are all a nice class of person. Mr Jamieson, left front, is a legal clerk. In quite a big office in town.’
They couldn’t be paying him much, thought Willa.
‘I’ll let you know,’ she said.
She went back to Bunty.
‘They were both dreadful,’ she reported.
Bunty was not surprised. ‘The landladies are pretty dreadful too. Trouble is, Willa, to get anything half decent you’d need more money.’
Willa already knew that. ‘What am I to do?’
‘You’ve got two options,’ said Bunty, ‘as I see it. One is to stay at Maureen’s. The other is to go back to Ina’s.’
‘You’ve already said I can’t stay on at Maureen’s.’
Bunty was saying nothing now.
‘How can I go back to Ina’s?’ demanded Willa. ‘She was trying to take my child away!’
‘I think she’s learnt her lesson.’
‘I wouldn’t be so sure.’
‘Och, I understand how she’s come to be the way she is.’
Malcolm was happy; Bunty had given him a set of keys on a ring to play with. He liked things that jingled and could be tested for strength between his six teeth.
‘Let’s go through the back,’ said Bunty. ‘The shop’s quiet at the moment.’
They went through, taking Malcolm with them.
‘Ina’s had a hard time in life,’ said Bunty.
‘Yes, I know all that. It wasn’t easy for my mother when my father died either.’
‘Aye, but with men. I’m going to tell you something, Willa. Roberto – Tommy’s dad – didn’t die.’
‘But she always calls herself a widow.’
‘He did a runner. Went without a word. Just didn’t come home one night from the ice-cream shop.’
‘He might have had an accident.’
‘He’d taken all his clothes with him. No, it was planned. When Ina looked in the closet later she found it was bare. Old Mother Hubbard, eh? It was a bitter blow to her. So there she was left all on her own with a baby and no money. Roberto had emptied out their post office savings account and all.’
‘Tommy’s never said anything to me about it.’
‘He doesn’t know. She didn’t want him to. She has her pride. And then, when Tommy was fourteen, what did he do? He upped and left her too, went away to sea. That was another blow. And now you’ve taken Malcolm.’
‘I had to.’
‘I ken. I’m not blaming you. You stuck it longer than I thought you would.’
‘Where did Roberto go?’
‘Back to Italy. Naples, as far as we know. Ina has never heard from him from that day to this. But a few years back I bumped into his uncle and he told me that Roberto had married a woman over there and had a couple of kids by her.’
‘But that’s bigamy.’
‘Aye. But who’s to know in Naples? I never let on to Ina. She was crazy about Roberto. She’s been crazy about all the men in her life. This wee one here included.’
‘Poor Ina,’ said Willa, never having thought she would ever speak the words. ‘I do feel sorry for her, Bunty, but that doesn’t mean I could go back and live with her.’
‘Think about it,’ said Bunty.
They heard the shop door opening and Bunty got up to see who it was. She came back with Richard.
‘I’ve been looking for you,’ he said to Willa.
‘And I’ve been looking for you.’
‘Why don’t the two of you go and have yourselves a wee walk. I’ll mind Malcolm. He behaves himself with me, don’t you, lad?’
Willa and Richard walked across the Meadows and she told him how she’d met and exchanged a few words with his mother.
‘I’m really sorry about that. Willa, I’ve been meaning to tell you – she wants me to go to London to finish my degree.’
