V for Violet

by Alison Rattle

  You’d think the Queen was here to stay, the way Mum’s been behaving. She’s scrubbed the whole place from top to bottom. She’s beaten the rugs, washed the nets, polished the furniture and even put a vase of carnations on the kitchen table.

  I was in my bedroom when Joseph first arrived. I heard Mum squealing with excitement and Dad slamming out of the house. I heard Mum bringing Joseph up to his room and her telling him, ‘There’s a clean towel on your bed, love. Have a minute to unpack and settle in, then come downstairs and I’ll put the kettle on.’

  She’s never put a clean towel on my bed.

  He was in his room for ages. I heard the sound of his wardrobe door opening and closing and the scrape of drawers. Then, just silence. For the longest time. What was he doing? Was he thinking? Was he sleeping? Was he looking at his childhood toy soldiers and wondering why they were still there on the windowsill? Then Mum called up the stairs, ‘The kettle’s on, love.’ And I heard him sniff and blow his nose and then I realised he’d been crying. Why would a grown man be crying in his bedroom? What is he hiding from us? Why won’t he tell us the real reason he’s come home? He’s not telling the whole truth. I just know it.

  I try to stay in my room for as long as I can. I want Dad to know I’m on his side. I’m not going to forgive Joseph for being a deserter either. I can hear them all chattering downstairs; Mum, Joseph, Norma and Raymond. Norma’s taken Mum’s side of course and she keeps swearing. She keeps calling Dad a hard-hearted bastard and if he doesn’t see sense soon, then he’s going to lose her as a daughter. It doesn’t suit Norma to swear. It’s like she’s got up in the morning and squeezed into someone else’s dress.

  They’re all laughing. It sounds all wrong. Like they’re having a party when there’s nothing to celebrate. I pace up and down my room. I can’t stay up here for ever and I know Mum’s cooked a roast. The smell of pork crackling is drifting up the stairs, making my mouth water. I don’t have to talk to Joseph, I suppose. I only have to eat.

  As I pass his room, I notice that the door is ajar. I push it with my foot until it swings open. It doesn’t look any different. The tin soldiers are still on the windowsill and as I step inside, I can see that the broken piece of mirror is still propped up on the chest of drawers. The only signs that Joseph has moved back in are the fluffy towel on the end of the bed, the empty duffle bag on the floor … and a bundle of letters on his pillow.

  I edge towards the bed and pick the bundle up. I can still hear them all laughing downstairs, like a pack of hyenas – a cackle of hyenas – so I feel safe for a moment. The letters are held together by an elastic band and there are dozens of them. I pull one out and peer at the envelope. It’s edged in blue and red stripes with an ink stamp at the top that says Par Avion. The handwriting is all loose and loopy but I can just make out, Joseph White, Flat 4, 241, Fulham Palace Road, London. It must be where he was lodging. I pull the letter out and open it up. The paper is tissue thin and smells of something sweet and flowery. The same loopy handwriting, but I can’t make head nor tail of it. It’s all in bloody French. Cher Joseph, it begins. Dear Joseph – I know that much. But the rest of it is just wriggles and squiggles of pale blue ink. I slide my eyes to the bottom of the page. It is signed with a big loopy A.

  Letters in French. French letters. They’re not what Jackie was talking about. I know that much. These wouldn’t stop a girl from getting pregnant.

  I wish there was something to tell me who A is. I run my fingers through the rest of the bundle to see if I can feel the tell-tale bulge of a photograph or something. It’s hard to tell though – I’d have to open more of the letters and Mum’s shouting up at me now, to come down and behave like a reasonable human being.

  I carefully fold up the letter and put it back in its envelope. I think about the ring on Joseph’s finger and the way he twisted it round and around. He said he’d found new people to love. But there must have been someone in particular. A beautiful French girl, probably, with a head of dark hair and piercing black eyes. I bet these letters are from her. I flick through the rest of the envelopes. There are a few that look different and when I check the postmarks I see that these ones were posted from London. But it’s the same handwriting. Whoever this A is, must have come to London too, then. Perhaps she followed him here?

  There must be some answers in these letters. Some clues that might help solve the mystery of why Joseph decided to come home after all these years. Something that will shed light on whatever it is he’s hiding. It’ll be easy enough to find out. All I need is a French dictionary and a few hours in the library.

  Norma looks at me disapprovingly as I sit next to her at the kitchen table. ‘Good of you to join us,’ she says.’ I flick the V sign at her and she flushes. ‘Just grow up, Violet!’ she hisses. ‘Just bloody grow up!’ Raymond nods at me. He doesn’t dare say hello or he’ll get a kick under the table from Norma. I don’t look at Joseph, and Mum’s too busy ogling him to notice me anyway, so I help myself to a plateful of roast spuds and some slices of pork.

  ‘Tell us some more French,’ Mum pleads. ‘Go on. You’ve got such a lovely accent.’

  Joseph clears his throat. ‘Okay,’ he says. Strange words dance off his tongue, quickly and elegantly.

  Norma claps her hands in delight. ‘Oh my goodness!’ she says. ‘It’s amazing. You sound proper French! What did you say?’

  ‘This meal is delicious. Thank you, Mum,’ he says.

  ‘Say something else. Say something else,’ chants Norma.

  Joseph thinks for a moment, then more words fly from his mouth, like dozens of dancing butterflies. ‘That means, it’s good to be home,’ he says.

  I nearly choke on a potato. What a creep! Showing off, all pleased with himself. And Mum and Norma gazing at him like he’s the best thing since sliced bread.

  ‘So, Joseph,’ I say slowly. He looks startled that I’ve actually spoken to him.

  He turns to me and raises his eyebrows.

  ‘Tell us more about France. Who did you live with? What were their names?’

  He picks up his cup and takes a sip of tea. ‘Well … okay,’ he says.

  I glimpse the hint of a frown crossing his forehead. But then it’s gone and he gathers up his face to concentrate on my question. He’s had a shave and a tidy up of his hair since I last saw him. He’s got Dad’s thin-lipped mouth and bum-chin. When Mum’s in a good mood she calls Dad’s chin his Cary Grant chin; she calls him her very own Hollywood movie star. Trust Joseph to inherit that bit.

  ‘They were called Armand,’ he’s saying. ‘The family I lived with.’ He nods towards Mum. ‘Mum and Norma know all this already.’ He looks back at me. ‘It was the grandfather’s farm, Eric – Monsieur Armand. He was like an ox. Still working all hours, from dawn till dusk, even in his seventies.’ He pauses for a moment to take another sip of tea. ‘Then there were Eric’s sons, Alain and Leon, and Leon’s wife Arabella and their three children, Isabelle, Bruno and Eleta.’

  ‘What were they like?’ I ask.

  He shrugs. ‘They were good people. Very good people. They took me in, didn’t they?’

  ‘They must have been wonderful,’ I say. I spit each word out like they’re acid drops. ‘You obviously preferred them to us.’

  Joseph holds his hands up in surrender. ‘It wasn’t like that, Violet.’

  Mum gives me a warning look.

  I ignore her. ‘Well, what was it like, then? Tell me that, Joseph. What was it like? So bloody wonderful that you couldn’t be bothered to let your own family know you were still alive?’

  ‘Violet!’ Mum scrapes her chair back, like she’s about to stand up and throw me out of the kitchen.

  ‘It’s okay, Mum,’ says Joseph. He reaches across the table and squeezes her hand. Then he turns to me and sighs. He looks a hundred years old. ‘It’s hard to explain, Violet. I don’t expect you to understand.’ He lets go of Mum’s hand. ‘I don’t expect any of you to understand. The war … the war … it did th
ings to people. Terrible things.’

  ‘More terrible than deserting your own family?’

  ‘Violet!’ Mum’s voice flies across the table. ‘Just stop it! Enough is enough!’ But she bites the corner of her lip and it’s obvious that she’d like to know the answer to my question as much as I do. She stands up and begins to clear the plates, bashing them together so that gravy and leftover potato shoot from the edges. ‘Right, everyone,’ she says, through gritted teeth, ‘who’s for apple pie and custard?’

  Norma glares at me fiercely, with her ‘I wish you’d never been born’ face. Raymond just keeps to himself and quickly spears his last potato before Mum whips his plate away.

  ‘Violet …’ Joseph leans towards me with a pleading look on his face, like I’m five years old and he’s trying to get me to eat my greens. But I don’t get to hear what he’s going to say because there’s a knock at the kitchen door, a loud ‘Coo-ee!’ and Jackie comes breezing into the kitchen.

  ‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘I didn’t know you were having your tea. Just popped round to have a word with Violet, if that’s okay?’

  ‘Yes … yes, Jackie.’ Mum seems relieved by the interruption. ‘Come on in,’ she says. ‘Don’t mind us. Would you like some apple pie?’

  ‘No thanks, Mrs White,’ says Jackie. She smooths her hands down her slim hips. ‘Watching me figure.’ She looks around the room. ‘Hi Norma,’ she says. ‘Hi Raymond.’ She nods at me. ‘All right, Violet …’ She stares at Joseph and leaves her sentence unfinished with a great big Joseph-shaped question mark right at the end.

  It’s Mum who eventually speaks. Her bosom swells up at least two bra sizes as she puts her hand on Joseph’s shoulder. ‘Now, Jackie, you know we had a son called Joseph?’ Jackie nods. ‘Who we thought for all these years had been killed in the war?’ Jackie nods again. ‘Well …’ says Mum, taking a deep breath, ‘we didn’t want to tell anyone yet, not until he’d settled down a bit, but he … he wasn’t killed. He wasn’t killed at all! This is Joseph. This is our Joseph. Back home with us.’ She bends down and kisses Joseph hard on the top of his head.

  Jackie makes a show of being shocked. She clamps her hand over her mouth and gasps. She’s a good actress, I’ll give her that. And a nosey cow. She couldn’t wait, could she? She had to come and see the prodigal son for herself. And use me as her excuse.

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Joseph,’ she says. She holds out her hand to him and I swear she almost bobs a curtsey.

  ‘Nice to meet you too, Jackie,’ says Joseph, as he takes her hand. His eyes sweep up and down her. ‘So, you’re a friend of Violet’s, are you?’

  ‘Yeah,’ says Jackie. ‘Known each other all our lives, haven’t we, Vi?’ She edges towards Dad’s empty chair, her eyes fixed on Joseph. ‘So …’ she says. ‘This is just amazing …’ She wouldn’t dare, would she? She wouldn’t dare sit down and have a conversation with him? Of course she would. This is Jackie we’re talking about. And she’s already forgotten about me, and what she supposedly came here for.

  ‘So, what did you want?’ I say quickly, before she changes her mind about the apple pie and takes up residence in Dad’s chair. ‘You said you wanted a word with me?’ I get up from the table and motion for her to follow. ‘Come on,’ I say. ‘We can go to my room.’

  ‘Oh. Right. Yeah … sure,’ says Jackie. She makes a face at Joseph, as if to say sorry. Then she turns to me. ‘Actually,’ she says. ‘It was only to remind you about the dance tomorrow night. Starts at seven at the Roxy. If you can make it?’

  I shrug. ‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘I’m meant to be working.’

  ‘Oh, you’ll let her have the night off, won’t you, Mrs W?’ Jackie smiles her best smile. ‘It won’t be the same without Violet.’

  Norma raises her eyebrows. ‘A dance? Violet? Well, I suppose it had to happen one day.’

  ‘But who’s going to help in the shop?’ says Mum. ‘It’s Friday. We’ll be run off our feet.’

  Joseph coughs. ‘Excuse me!’ he says. ‘Have you forgotten that I was once the best fish batterer this side of the Thames? Let Violet have her night off. I’ll help in the shop.’

  Mum gives me a look that says, see how nice he is to you, even though you’re being a horrible bitch. ‘Well, there you go, Violet,’ she says. ‘Your brother has given you the night off.’

  ‘Great,’ says Jackie. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow then, Violet. Best glad rags and all that!’ She turns back to Joseph. ‘Really good to meet you,’ she simpers. ‘And I’ll see you again, I’m sure.’

  ‘I’m sure you will,’ says Joseph, and even though he’s old enough to be her dad, he actually winks at her.

  V for Vanish

  It’s freezing this morning. There’s ice on the insides of my windows and my breath is frosting in front of my face. I’ve pulled my clothes into bed with me and I’m dressing under the warm tent of my blankets. Mum’s already downstairs cooking a fry up and Dad’s in the bathroom, shaving.

  They were all up late last night; Mum, Dad and Joseph. They sat in the front room after the shop had shut, with a bottle of whisky. Dad was shouting again for a bit, about how ashamed he was and how he couldn’t look people in the eye. Mum was crying again and Joseph was talking softly to them both. I couldn’t hear what he was saying, but just before midnight there was a terrible sound. Someone was gasping and choking. I crept down the stairs with my heart in my throat. I prepared myself to open the door of the front room to find Dad standing over Joseph with his hands round his neck. But as I put my ear to the door, I realised it was Dad making all the noise. And he wasn’t being throttled, he was crying. He was crying his heart out and it was the worst sound I have ever heard.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he eventually managed to say. ‘I’m sorry, son. It’s been so hard. It’s my pride … I know … my stupid pride.’ His voice cracked. ‘When you came back, I couldn’t accept it was really you. My son was a hero … not a coward.’

  ‘Oh, Frank …’ Mum said.

  ‘I know … I know,’ said Dad. ‘I should have been overjoyed to have you back. No one could ever replace you. You were my son. My first born.’ He took a deep shuddering breath. ‘I’m not like your mother. I’ll try and forgive you, I promise I will. But I need to know why you left it for so long to come back. How could you let us suffer for all these years?’

  ‘I don’t know the answer to that, Dad. Not yet anyway,’ said Joseph. ‘There’s so much stuff in my head. So much darkness …’

  I didn’t wait to hear any more. No one could ever replace you, Dad had said. I always knew that. I always knew that Joseph was number one. Even now, after all that he’s done, he’s still the Golden Boy. He got the biggest slice of their love and Norma got what was left. I was a mistake, and all I got was the crumbs. Hearing it said out loud was like a knife in my heart.

  I feel numb now. As cold inside as I feel outside. But I still have to get up. I still have to spend the day peeling potatoes that’ll be as hard and cold as frozen rocks. And I’ll have to watch as Joseph wheedles his way back into everyone’s hearts until there’s no room at all left for me. I’ll fade away bit by bit, day by day, until I disappear altogether.

  V for Violet

  V for Vanish

  I touch the silver V at my throat. At least there’s still Jackie. There’s always been Jackie. She can’t let me down now.

  I lay some clothes out on my bed, ready for later. There’s an old skirt of Mum’s, a shiny peach-coloured thing that swivels loosely around my waist, and a cream blouse with a stain on the bosom that I’ll cover with a brooch. It’s not exactly belle of the ball stuff but it’s the best I can muster from my measly wardrobe. In a few hours from now, I won’t care what’s happening at home. I’ll be at the Roxy. My stomach flips at the thought. Right now, I’d rather stick pins in my eyes than go to the dance at the Roxy tonight. But if I want to hold on to Jackie, I’ve got no choice. Besides, I tell myself, maybe, just maybe, I might actually enjoy myself.

&n
bsp; Mum calls up that breakfast is ready and I hear Joseph – the traitor, the coward – whistling as he makes his way downstairs. Now’s my chance to smuggle out the letters.

  I creep out of my room and open Joseph’s bedroom door as quietly as I can. The room smells different now; of warm breath and clean sweat. He’s made his bed and smoothed out the candlewick cover. The tin soldiers are gone and instead there’s a pile of books arranged neatly on the windowsill. The bundle of letters is nowhere to be seen. I slip my hand under his pillow, but they aren’t there. I look under his bed and through each of his drawers and I check inside his wardrobe. The empty duffel bag is at the bottom of the wardrobe, but there’s no sign of the letters. What the hell’s he done with them?

  ‘Violet!’ Mum yells up the stairs. ‘Your eggs are getting cold!’

  I groan. They must be here. They must be here somewhere. I stop in the middle of the room and try to think. Where have I looked? Where haven’t I looked?

  ‘Violet!’

  I pull a chair over to the wardrobe and stand on it. I reach a hand out and search on top of the wardrobe. There’s nothing there but dust. I put the chair back in the corner. Think. Think. Think. By now, I know that Joseph hasn’t just put the letters away somewhere. He’s hidden them.

  Where could he hide them in here? Under the floorboards? Then it hits me and I actually slap my forehead. Where does everyone hide things? Where’s the most obvious place in the whole wide world? I push my hand under his mattress and almost yelp in triumph. I bring out the bundle of letters and quickly stuff them in my pocket.

  ‘Violet! What the bloody hell are you doing?’ Mum’s shrieking now. Not a good sign.

  ‘Just coming!’ I shout. I close Joseph’s door and pull down my blouse to cover the bulge in my pocket. Then I run to my room and push the letters to the back of my underwear drawer. They’ll be safe there until I get a chance to go to the library. I can’t imagine anyone will want to rifle through my knickers. I don’t know what Joseph will do if he notices his letters are missing. I don’t want to even think about it.