‘Hey,’ he says. ‘I wasn’t sure if it was you. You look different.’
I turn around to face the front again, too shocked to reply. What the hell is he doing here? The bus judders, it’s slowing down, and for a moment I wonder if I should get off at the next stop. He taps me on the shoulder again. ‘Violet?’
I freeze.
He leans forward to whisper into my ear. ‘Violet. Please? Why won’t you talk to me?’ His breath is hot and smells of onions.
The bus stops. I could get off right now. There’s no reason why I can’t. I could jump off at the last minute and run for it. He wouldn’t chase me, would he? It would look bad if he did that, and someone would stop him.
But I don’t jump off. The old Violet would have done. But the new Violet is better than that. The new Violet is ready for anything. Passengers get off and others get on. There’s an empty seat next to me now. I hold my breath. Then, as the bus starts rolling again, he does what I knew he would and he slides into the empty seat. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’ he says.
I shrug.
‘I couldn’t believe it when I saw you. I … I was hoping we could talk. Go somewhere maybe? We could get a coffee or something?’
‘No thanks,’ I say. ‘I’ve got to be back by three.’
He flips his wrist to look at his watch. ‘It’s only half one,’ he says. ‘Come on.’ He nudges me gently. ‘Let me buy you a coffee and I can get to know my little sister.’
‘Bit late, don’t you think?’ I snap back. ‘I’m hardly little any more.’
‘Look,’ he says. ‘I know this has all been a huge shock … and with Dad being how he is … it’s not easy. But it hasn’t exactly been easy for me either, you know. Please, Violet. At least give me a chance to explain.’
He’s wringing his hands in his lap. His skin is brown and dusty and there’s a couple of scars, like white scratches, on the backs of his hands. There’s dirt under his nails and a thick gold band on his finger. ‘Are you married?’ I ask.
He shakes his head. ‘No,’ he says.
I point to his finger. ‘What’s the ring for then?’
He twists the ring round and round, but doesn’t say anything.
‘You’re not divorced, are you?’ I ask, adding it to the growing list of dirty words about him in my head. Deserter, liar, coward, divorcee …
He laughs, like it was a stupid question. ‘No. I’m not divorced. It’s just complicated, that’s all.’ The bus judders and pulls over to the next stop. ‘Come on,’ he says, changing the subject. ‘A quick coffee?’
I follow him off the bus and we walk in silence along Old Brompton Road. He swings his arms like he’s marching. We come to a buzzy little café with tables on the pavement covered in red and white check cloths. ‘This okay?’ he asks. We sit at a table and I fiddle with a plastic rose that’s been stuck into a green glass bottle as a table decoration. A waitress comes and Joseph orders two coffees. He chews his fingernails and taps his feet as we wait. When the coffee arrives he offers me the sugar first and then we stir our drinks like stirring is going out of fashion. After a while, when the silence between us is so tight it’s painful, he clears his throat.
‘Okay, Violet,’ he says. ‘Ask away. Ask me anything you want.’
There’s only one thing I really want to know. I look at him and he looks back at me. There’s no twinkling stars in his eyes any more and the skin around them is crepey and grey. He doesn’t look like he’s slept since 1944. I think of the photograph that was on the mantelpiece my whole life, the photograph of the shiny young boy, that’s now in the bin, probably covered in eggshells and tea leaves. The photograph of the boy I could never be better than, no matter how hard I tried. The photograph that was, as it turns out, just a big, fat lie.
‘Were you ever a hero?’ I ask him. ‘Even for just a second?’
He looks at me for a long time, then shakes his head. ‘I never wanted to be a hero, Violet. I just wanted to live.’ He digs a cigarette from out of his pocket and I watch as it takes him three matches to light it. ‘I was a welder before the war,’ he says, as smoke trickles from his nostrils. ‘Did Mum and Dad ever tell you that? I used to work in the chippie, but Mum wanted something better for me. Dad wasn’t too happy at first, but in the end even he agreed that he wanted his son to do more with his life than he had. I was glad about that. I had plans, you see. I was going to get my own garage one day, earn a good living, save some money. Then I was going to get out of London. Go to Kent or somewhere and see if I could rent a piece of land. I wanted to grow my own crops, keep some cows. Be a farmer of sorts. Does that surprise you? But then the war came and planted a black full-stop right in the middle of it all.
‘Everybody was enlisting at the beginning of the war. It was the thing to do. And Dad encouraged me. He wanted his son to do ‘the right thing’. We all thought it was so exciting at first. I decided to volunteer for the RAF. I liked the idea of working with planes. And I knew some stuff about engineering, with the welding and all that. I had to go to Sheffield to enrol. First time I’d been out of London. Made me think that I wouldn’t mind travelling. I was glad the war had come so that I had the chance to see some of the world.
‘I didn’t have a clue, Violet. I didn’t have a clue.’ He grinds his cigarette out on the ground and immediately lights another one.
‘I went somewhere in Wales for my training. I can’t remember where now. It’s all a bit of a blur. But we had lessons in a classroom on how to operate a plane. We all thought we were so clever. I made some good friends there. I thought I’d know them for ever. But they were all killed. One after the other.’
Our coffee goes cold as Joseph talks. He’s like a gushing tap; the words just pour out of him.
‘It was all like a game at first,’ he says. ‘Like when I was a kid, playing with tin soldiers. None of it was real. But the last time I came back home, just before I had to go and join my squadron, was when it all became real. The bombing had started, you see. The night-time raids. People were dying. Homes were being destroyed. It wasn’t a game any more. And I realised I didn’t want to go away to fight. I wanted to stay at home. I wished I hadn’t signed up. But I had no choice then. And Dad was so proud of me.
‘And do you know what I thought? I thought how unfair it all was. Why were there some fellas that were allowed to stay behind and I wasn’t? All those lucky enough to be in reserved occupations. The miners, the teachers, the railway men, the dockers and the farmers. I was so envious of them all, and I was terrified. But I couldn’t show it. I had to be a brave young man.’ He sucks deeply on his cigarette and blows the smoke furiously into the air.
‘I think most of us knew we were pretending to be brave, but nobody could say anything. On the train on the way to the barracks there were some fellas that were sick. They laughed it off and said it must have been all the drink they’d had the evening before to celebrate their last night of freedom. But I knew it wasn’t. I knew it was the terror that they couldn’t stomach. Because I’d been sick myself, only I’d done it quietly, on the station platform while we were waiting for the train. I’d bent down to pretend to tie my boot laces and I’d vomited quickly and silently down onto the tracks.
‘The fear never went away. Never. It was like having a rat gnawing away at your insides, day in and day out. I kept thinking of all the things I could have done if I’d been allowed to stay at home. I could have driven ambulances, I could have worked in an ammunition factory, I could have become a teacher or I could have gone to Kent and grown vegetables to help the war effort. But instead, I was just another young body; a pig on its way to the slaughterhouse.
‘You can’t imagine what it was like, Violet. It was a nightmare. A never-ending nightmare that I couldn’t wake up from. But then it got worse. The first time I flew in a plane I thought my insides would fall out. Every time we were called to a briefing and sent out on a bombing raid, I thought it would be my last day on Earth. Every few days someone wouldn’
t make it back. There would be another empty chair in the mess hall.
‘The last bombing raid we did, I knew it was going to be a big one because we were told there was two thousand gallons of fuel in the plane. That meant about ten hours of flying. We were ordered to fly to northern France, but during the afternoon, not at night when we usually flew. The pilot that day was a Canadian fella called Sidney Wagg. I knew he had a wife and a small baby at home because he carried their photograph everywhere, and whenever he flew he stuck the photograph on the control panel. I can still see their faces. She was a pretty girl and the baby had the chubbiest cheeks you can imagine.
‘Before we left, we were given our wakey-wakey pills to keep us alert and the padre said his usual prayer – may you live long, die happy and be in heaven for ten days before the Devil knows you’re there.
‘I didn’t want to die happy. I didn’t want to die at all.
‘But we flew to France and as we manoeuvred into line to start the bombing, I knew it was going to be the last time I ever viewed the world from the skies, unless I ended up in heaven. I don’t know if it was the wakey-wakey pills having a more than usual strange effect on my mind, but instead of the job in hand, I couldn’t help focusing on odd little details.
‘There was a mole on the back of Sidney Wagg’s neck that I’d never noticed before. It had a single black hair growing from its centre. His face was covered in a sheen of sweat, and even though he must have shaved that morning, I could already see a hint of his five o’clock shadow. And I couldn’t stop looking at the photograph of his wife and baby. The collar of his wife’s blouse had roses embroidered on it. I realised I didn’t even know their names. And I didn’t know if the baby was a boy or a girl.
‘Then the bomb hit us. It came from above and knocked our wing off. I’d always imagined that moment and how terrified I’d be. But it wasn’t like that. I was calm. Calmer than I’d been for months. I shouted at Sidney to bail out, but he wouldn’t. He kept yelling that he could control it, that he could land the thing. But I didn’t want to waste any time, so I ran to the escape hatch and bailed out. And then I was falling; even with the parachute the ground was coming up faster than I could have imagined. I kept hoping Sidney would follow me out, but just before I hit the ground there was a terrific noise and the plane was hit by enemy fire. I kept thinking how they’d all be together now; Sidney and his wife and their baby. But then I remembered that it was only a photograph and that it was only Sidney that had died.
‘I was in a bad way when I hit the ground. My parachute was in tatters. And my arm was broken. It didn’t hurt then, but I knew it was broken because a bone had ripped a hole in my shirt. But I knew I had to move quickly, before the enemy came looking for me. I wandered into a nearby wood. It was like I was sleepwalking. My body was doing all the work, not my head. I found a barn and I slept and slept and slept. When I woke up there was a young girl looking down at me. I thought I had died and gone to heaven and she was an angel. She went away, but came back later with a man and a woman and they made me take off my uniform and change into some scruffy work trousers and an old shirt. They took me to a safe house and wrapped my arm in bandages and gave me cheese and bread and wine. It was the most delicious meal I had ever had.
‘A few days later I got moved to another place; a remote farmhouse in a valley. It was a special place, Violet, and they were special people. They worked for the Resistance and they kept me safe. They looked after me. They reset the bones in my arm and gave me medicine to kill any infection. They fed me and let me rest. And it really was like being in heaven. The war seemed so far away, like it belonged in someone else’s life. Like it had all been some horrible nightmare.
‘I should have left. I know I should. I should have been smuggled out of France and back to England to report for duty, but I kept finding excuses not to leave. My arm needed more time to heal. I wasn’t strong enough to make the journey yet. I made myself useful. I did what I could around the farm and they liked having me there.
‘Then, when I did grow stronger, I did more work on the farm and I was good at it. Nobody came looking for me and as time went on it got so that I couldn’t have gone back even if I had wanted to. There would have been too many questions. I would have been court martialled, thrown into prison – or worse. Then the war ended and that was that. The decision was made for me. It was too late. I really couldn’t come back. And if you want to know the truth, Violet, I didn’t want to come back. I’d got a new life that I loved. New people that I loved. And I knew that Dad would never forgive me for what I’d done.’
He swallows a mouthful of cold coffee and pulls a face. ‘I deserted the army, Violet. I know it was wrong, but I don’t care. I never believed in the war and at least I’m alive and I’ve had a life.’
‘That’s where you’ve been all these years then?’ I said. ‘At that farmhouse?’
He nods.
‘So why have you come back now then, if it was all so wonderful?’
He doesn’t answer straight away. Then he says, ‘Everyone has to come home at some point, Violet.’
‘But why now? How could you have let Mum and Dad think you were dead for seventeen years! Didn’t you care about that?’ If blood could really boil, mine would be bubbling furiously now.
‘Of course I cared.’ He shrugs. ‘But I suppose I just thought everyone would be getting on with their lives and would have forgotten about me.’
There’s something he’s not telling me. I can tell by the way his eyes keep slipping away from my challenging stare. ‘But I still don’t understand. Why now? Why did you come home now?’
‘Sometimes,’ he says, ‘there’s no answer to a question. No matter how many times you ask it.’ He leans towards me and tries to take my hands. I pull them away and shove them out of reach under the table. He looks embarrassed for a second but then he takes a deep breath. ‘Listen, Violet,’ he says. ‘I’m home now. I’ve told you my story. Mum’s forgiven me. Norma’s forgiven me. Dad hasn’t yet, but he will. And I’d just like the chance to get to know you. Please. I’ll be the best big brother a girl could wish for!’
His attempt at a joke makes me want to spit blood. I clench my fists under the table. ‘I’ve never had a big brother,’ I say. ‘Not for seventeen years. And I don’t need one now.’ I push my chair back and stand up to leave. ‘Thanks for the coffee,’ I say through gritted teeth. Then I zip up my leather jacket and run for the next bus home.
It’s late now. It must be gone midnight. I’ve been in bed for ages, but I can’t sleep. I didn’t tell Mum that I’d seen Joseph. I didn’t want the endless questions that I knew she’d ask or to see a spark of hope in her eyes. And I know Dad wouldn’t have cared less anyway. Besides, he was too busy yelling at me.
‘Wipe that bloody muck off your face. You’re not serving customers looking like that.’ And, ‘What the hell is that thing you’re wearing? Christ, Violet, who the hell do you think you are? You’re asking for trouble looking like that!’
I didn’t bother to argue with him. Dad’ll never understand. Not in a million years. I don’t care what he thinks anyway. The only opinion that matters is Beau’s. And he’ll love my new leather jacket. I know he will.
It’s hanging up on the outside of my wardrobe now, taunting me. It’s shining in a dazzle of moonlight. I didn’t get to wear it again tonight because Beau didn’t come. All evening I expected him to walk through the shop door and ask for his six of chips. Every time the door jangled I looked up with a smile ready on my face. But he never came. And now I feel stupid for thinking he would. Perhaps he thinks he made a mistake, taking me out on his motorcycle that night. Perhaps he thought I was another girl; a fun girl, a dangerous girl, a girl who’s up for a laugh.
I want to shout at him. If only he’d bothered to come tonight he would have seen that I am that girl now. I look at my leather jacket again and I remember the girl on Chelsea Bridge. The one who asked my name. There’s a tightening in my stomach as I t
ry not to imagine that it’s her draping herself all over Beau tonight.
French Letters
It’s Thursday. Not a good day. It was only last Saturday that Joanne Thomas’s body was discovered and now another girl has been found raped and murdered. Her body dumped outside the pump house this time. Her name was Pamela Bennett. She was sixteen. She was new to the area, so I didn’t know her. I’m glad about that. It’s easier to pretend it’s not real if something terrible happens to a stranger.
Now everyone’s behaving oddly. Hardly anyone’s stopping to chat on the streets any more, there’s no kids playing outside and there’s a horrible silence everywhere. It’s like a great machine has come to Battersea and sucked away all the smiles and laughter and replaced them with fear and suspicion.
Dad’s been banging on, that it’s all the fault of this new pill you can get now that stops you from getting pregnant. He reckons it’ll turn all women into fast pieces. But as usual, he’s got it all wrong. Only married women can get this pill and Pamela Bennett wasn’t married. But even if she was taking a pill that stops you getting pregnant, she should still have been allowed to say no to a fella. Dad’s told me he doesn’t want to see me all dolled up again either. ‘There’s trouble enough already,’ he said, ‘without you going around asking for it.’
And if all that wasn’t bad enough, Joseph has moved back home.
He’s run out of money for his lodgings and until he finds some work, Mum says he can have his old room back. Dad’s not happy of course, in fact he’s furious, but Mum’s not having any of it. ‘He’s my son, our son,’ she keeps saying to him. ‘If you don’t like it, Frank, then you move out.’
Dad has shouted himself hoarse, but Mum won’t budge. There’s a fierce light in her eyes these days and I think that Dad knows, deep down, that he can’t come between a mother and her child. Especially a child who’s risen from the dead.
V for Violet Page 10
