V for Violet

by Alison Rattle

  We stop on Chelsea Bridge again and slot ourselves into place with the rest of the Chelsea Bridge boys and girls. The coffee that Beau buys for me scalds my tongue and throat and brings the blood back to my fingertips with a slow creeping agony. Beau shares his cigarette with me and we stamp our feet as our teeth chatter and we listen to the jokes and the teasing and the conversations that whizz past our ears and over our heads.

  ‘I’m glad I saw you tonight,’ I say. ‘I wasn’t sure, you know, if … if I’d see you again.’

  ‘Glad I saw you too,’ he says. ‘Tell you what, though. That fella who served me my chips tonight wasn’t half as pretty as you.’ He grins at me.

  I imagine Joseph standing behind the counter at the chippie and I wonder how many of our customers will know who he really is. And I wonder if they’ll mind being served their suppers by the likes of him. I’ve half a mind to tell Beau all about him. But I don’t, because what if he doesn’t want to hang out with the sister of a deserter and a liar? Instead I ask Beau what he’s been up to and where he’s been, trying to sound as casual as I can.

  ‘Oh, you know, this and that,’ he says. He nudges me with his elbow. ‘Thought about you a lot.’

  I want to believe him. I really do. So, even when a little voice in my head tells me to stop being so stupid, there must be other girls, I ignore it and I catch the eye of the girl who spoke to me last time and smile at her.

  ‘Hey, it’s Violet, isn’t it?’ she says. ‘Love your hair. Really suits you.’

  I put my hand up to touch it and silently thank Mum for her hair lacquer. At some point I realise that Beau has put his arm across my shoulder. I lean in to him and think about how amazing this all is. It’s like I’ve known him all my life, when I don’t really know him at all. And suddenly I know who I am. I’m Violet with a capital V, and this is where I belong.

  Later, as Beau is driving me back home, we pass by the Roxy as everyone’s all spilling out on to the street. I hold on to Beau as tightly as I can as he opens up the throttle and sends a roar like a Spitfire into the night air. It’s a fingers-up to the lot of them. I hope Jackie’s somewhere there, watching and listening. And I hope she realises the fingers-up is especially for her.

  As we round the corner I catch sight of a figure huddled inside a donkey jacket, hands in pockets, head down against the cold. It’s Joseph. I twist my head round to watch the back of him as we rip past. Where’s he going at this time of night? I think of the letters, hidden in my underwear drawer, the loopy writing waiting to be unravelled. I can’t wait to find out what his little secret is. To find out why he really came home. It doesn’t dawn on me until Beau pulls up outside the chippie that perhaps Joseph has gone to the Roxy to meet me and Jackie, to walk us home.

  But I don’t dwell on the thought because as I get off the bike, Beau puts his arm around my waist and pulls me towards him. ‘Ever been kissed, Violet?’ he says.

  I shake my head.

  ‘Bout time you were then,’ he says. He presses his lips against mine. I don’t move. I don’t know if I’m supposed to. His lips are soft and hard, all at once, and they taste as sweet as toffee apples. Tiny stars burst inside my head. When he pulls away I feel like I’ve just run up a flight of stairs when I haven’t moved an inch.

  ‘See you later, Violet,’ he says, his voice all deep and rough. As I wave him off I realise that this might be the happiest moment of my life and that I’ll always remember that kiss, even if I live to ninety.

  Love Story

  I’m at the library before Miss Read has even had time to unlock the door. I’ve got Joseph’s letters and a notebook and pen stuffed inside my jacket pocket. ‘You’re keen this morning, Violet,’ she says as she ushers me inside.

  ‘The early bird catches the worm,’ I reply. And I smile to myself as a picture comes into my head of Joseph, transformed into a six-foot long worm, being pecked in half by a sparrow the size of a double-decker bus.

  I go straight to the reference section and search the shelves until I find a copy of an English/French dictionary, then I settle myself at a table in the farthest corner of the library and begin my top-secret task.

  I open my notebook and pick up one of the envelopes stamped Par Avion. I take out the letter and spread it out in front of me. The first bit’s easy; Cher Joseph = Dear Joseph.

  I work my way along the first line. The words look all exotic and jumbled and complicated and they are all decorated with little squiggles and dashes.

  Anniversaire. Amour. La première fois. Rencontré.

  I flick through the dictionary trying to find the same words and their meanings, but it’s all so confusing. But then I find that amour means love and I know straight away that I was right about one thing – Joseph was in love with a French girl.

  I work my way through the rest of the letter, jotting down notes as I go. I can’t translate it all exactly, but I think I’ve got some of the meaning. The French girl writes about remembering the first time they met and how they knew they were meant to be together. And she writes about the time they fell asleep under a tree in each other’s arms.

  It takes me for ever to work just that much out. I yawn and stretch my legs out under the table. I read through what I’ve got so far. It’s a love letter, that’s clear enough. A bloody love letter.

  I try to work out the next bit, and I think it’s all about nights in a barn with the rain pouring down outside.

  I hope they’re not all going to be like this. It’s like reading the worst kind of poetry. But then there’s a sentence that makes me stop. It’s about promises and rings and about never taking the rings off.

  I put my pen down and I think of the ring on Joseph’s finger. She loves Joseph, whoever this A is. She loves him very much. But none of her fancy words help to solve the mystery of why he came home. I open the second letter and my heart sinks as I stare at the tangle of words. But I take a deep breath and turn back to the dictionary. After a while I have a new list in my notebook and I stare and stare at the words and try to hear the French girl’s voice in my head.

  Dear Joseph, I hear her say.

  I have done my best. But Papa will not listen to reason. I am afraid that any chance of a reconciliation is now lost for ever. He will not even see me, let alone speak to me.

  Do not blame yourself. We both knew the chance we were taking and I for one would not have done anything different. If being with you means losing my family, then so be it.

  I will join you as soon as I can.

  Yours always,

  A

  What chance did she and Joseph take, I wonder? And why did she lose her family because of it? I hold my head in my hands for a moment. There are more questions than ever now, spinning round and round in my head.

  I start a clean page in my notebook.

  1. There is a French girl with a name beginning with A.

  2. She loves Joseph very much.

  3. They have taken a chance of some sort.

  4. She has lost her family because of it.

  6. Why??

  I don’t know what any of these clues mean yet. But I know for certain – the way I always seem to know these things – that Joseph is hiding something, and one way or another I’m going to find out what it is.

  I choose another envelope. This one is stamped Par Avion too, so I know it was posted from France. As I open it and unfold the letter, I smell the flowery scent again and I half imagine the mysterious French girl standing behind me watching me read her words. I shiver and look over my shoulder. But of course there’s nobody there except for Miss Read sorting through the shelves of World History. I turn back to the letter and pick out a couple of words to translate. Then I imagine I hear the girl’s voice again, all lilting and sexy with a thick French accent.

  Dear Joseph

  It was so good to get your letter. I miss you too. I miss you so much my bones hurt. But it won’t be long now until we are together again. Try not to go to those dark places too often
. I know where they can lead you. There is only despair at the end of that road.

  Yours always,

  A

  Some of the words are difficult to read and according to the dictionary, some of them have more than one meaning in French. But I’m sure I’ve got it right. I’ve just got that feeling.

  Dark places.

  Despair at the end of that road.

  What the hell does she mean?

  I take another letter out of its envelope. The flowery scent is beginning to give me a headache.

  Joseph, her voice whispers in my ear.

  Do not talk about those things. Why would you even think about doing something like that? It fills me with horror to hear you talk like that. Please just wait for me. It won’t be long now. Promise me you will wait.

  Yours always,

  A

  I pick up my notebook and add to the list.

  7. What was Joseph thinking of doing?

  8. Where are the dark places that he goes to?

  9. Who is she? Who the hell is A?

  I push my glasses to the top of my head and rub my eyes. And then, just like that, as though someone had posted it through a slot in my skull, the name Arabella pops into my head. Of course. Joseph mentioned her the other day. She was the wife of one of the sons who worked on the farm. Suddenly it all starts to make sense. I glance up at the clock on the wall and see it’s nearly midday. I didn’t realise I’d been here for so long. Miss Read walks by and taps her watch meaningfully. I need to hurry. She’ll be wanting to close for lunch soon and I need to get back before Joseph notices his letters missing.

  I quickly sort through them, searching the postmarks for dates. The last letter posted from France is stamped August fifteenth. Two months ago.

  I haven’t got much time, and I’m getting lost in the dictionary and my head is banging and banging.

  Coming soon

  On my way

  Together again

  Then another letter, posted two weeks later. It’s the first letter to be sent to Joseph from London. She came, then. She came to be with him.

  I’ll be there in the park, by the pump house

  Seven o’clock

  I want you in my arms

  And another.

  Something has changed

  I can feel it

  And then the very last letter, posted October fourteenth.

  What’s happened to you?

  I’ve sacrificed everything for you

  You’ve changed

  You frighten me

  I scribble it all down in my notebook. And I realise that I’ve got a story of some sort. A story with huge holes in it. A story book with most of the pages ripped out.

  Two people come together in war-torn France. One of them is a deserter from the British Royal Airforce, the other a beautiful French girl called Arabella who works for the Resistance. They fall in love. The deserter loves Arabella so much that he forgets about his own family back in England who believe he was killed in the war. Unfortunately, Arabella is already married, so when, many years later, their affair is discovered, they are forced to part and Arabella’s family disown her. The deserter travels back to England and is reunited with his family while he waits for Arabella to join him. When she finally arrives in England, they meet in secret, but something is wrong. The deserter is a changed man. He has dark thoughts and he frightens Arabella. Why won’t he tell his family about her? And where is she now? Why have the letters stopped?

  That’s it. That’s where the story ends. But a story never really ends, I know that.

  Miss Read coughs. I close my notebook, gather the letters into a bundle and put the dictionary back on the shelf. ‘Did you catch the worm then, Violet?’ she asks, her cheeks colouring at her attempt at a joke.

  ‘I think so, Miss Read,’ I tell her as I head for the door. ‘I think so.’

  I hurry home. There might be a chance to sneak the letters back into Joseph’s room before I have to start peeling potatoes. I’m halfway down Lavender Hill when I stop in my tracks. I’ll be there in the park by the pump house. That’s what she said. That’s what Arabella wrote in one of her letters. The pump house. Where Joanne Thomas and Pamela Bennett were found raped and murdered. I swallow hard.

  I think I caught more than just a worm. I think I caught a whole bucketful.

  My head’s in a spin as I open the kitchen door, so the last thing I expect is to hear Brenda’s voice. A groan rolls into my throat. So now they’ll know all about the argument last night. How I told Jackie to piss off and how I rode off into the night with a dodgy Rocker boy. I don’t know what Jackie will have said. It won’t be anything good, that’s for sure. But I don’t care. Jackie was a prize cow to me and she got what she deserved.

  I brace myself for the sharp edge of Brenda’s tongue. As I walk in the door, she’s just taking a sip from a cup of tea. She slams the cup back in its saucer and tea slaps out onto the table and starts to dribble off the edge and on to the kitchen floor. ‘Violet! Thank God!’ she says.

  ‘What?’ I say. I look at Mum, who’s grabbed a cloth from the sink to stem the flow of spilt tea.

  ‘Where is she?’ asks Brenda. I realise she’s still got her rollers in. That’s not like her. Brenda would never leave the house with rollers in her hair.

  ‘Where’s who?’ I say.

  ‘Jackie.’ Brenda’s voice cracks. ‘She never came home last night.’

  I’m thrown for a minute. Why wouldn’t Jackie have come home? She wouldn’t do that to Brenda. She wouldn’t let her worry like this. Then I picture Jackie outside the Roxy with Colin, her clothes all rumpled and her make-up smudged. Should I tell Brenda that Jackie probably spent the night with him? That she was out all night with a fella? For some reason, an old feeling of loyalty makes my mouth say one thing when my brain wants to say another. ‘She’s probably stopped out at one of her friend’s. Pauline or Mary or whatever they’re called. One of the girls from the factory.’

  ‘It’s not like her,’ says Brenda. ‘She always tells me what she’s doing. And she said she was coming home.’ She looks me straight in the eye. ‘You were with her at the dance. You were supposed to walk home together, weren’t you?’

  ‘I … I left early,’ I say. ‘I wasn’t feeling right. Had a headache. I thought one of her friends would walk her home.’ It’s the truth. So why am I being made to feel guilty?

  Mum frowns. ‘But I heard you come in, Violet. It was late when you got home. Not early.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say. Now it’s getting awkward. ‘I didn’t say I came home early. I said I left the Roxy early.’ I hold my head up. ‘I met a friend. He … he took me for a ride on his motorcycle. To help clear my head.’

  Mum’s mouth drops open. ‘What friend? What motorcycle? First I’ve heard of this!’

  Brenda slams her hand on the table. ‘Can we just get back to Jackie!’

  ‘Sorry,’ I mumble. ‘I don’t know what to tell you. When I left she was still with her friends. I reckon that’s where she will have gone. Just forgot to let you know, that’s all.’

  Brenda shakes her head. ‘No, no, no. Even if she had, she’d be back by now. Look at the time. It’s after lunchtime!’ Her chin starts to wobble and she swipes at her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘I can’t believe you did that, Violet,’ she mutters. ‘You were supposed to look after each other. Especially after what just happened to those poor girls in the park. How could you? You shouldn’t have left the Roxy without her!’

  I can’t believe she’s blaming me. She has no idea what a bitch Jackie was to me. I hear Jackie’s voice again. Felt sorry for her. She hasn’t got any friends, and suddenly, in a breath, those last feelings of loyalty disappear.

  ‘What about Colin?’ I say. ‘Could she be with him?’

  ‘Colin? A boy?’ Brenda’s face flushes a deep pink. ‘Why would she be out all night with a boy? Jackie’s a good girl. You know that.’

  ‘Just a thought,’ I say. ‘He was there
with her last night. He’s her boyfriend, I think.’

  Brenda’s face is almost purple now. ‘I’ll tan her bloody hide for her,’ she says under her breath. Then louder. ‘I’ll tan her bloody hide, till she can’t walk for a week!’

  ‘All right, Brenda,’ says Mum. ‘Calm down. Come on, finish your tea. Jackie is a good girl. And there’ll be a simple explanation, I’m sure. She’s probably back home already, for all you know.’

  ‘You’re right,’ says Brenda, her eyes bright with hope. ‘She might be back and wondering where I am. I won’t finish my tea. But thanks all the same.’

  ‘Let us know, won’t you,’ says Mum. ‘Let us know she’s back safe.’

  Brenda scurries out the door. ‘If she’s not back by teatime,’ she shouts over her shoulder. ‘I’m calling the police!’

  Mum turns to face me. Her hands planted squarely on her hips in battle position. ‘You’ve got some explaining to do, young lady,’ she says. ‘Riding about in the middle of the night on a motorcycle? What the hell do you think you’re playing at?’

  ‘What’s your problem?’ I say. ‘At least I came home.’

  She follows me through to the back kitchen.

  ‘So, who’s this fella you were gallivanting around with, then? Did you meet him at the dance?’

  ‘He’s just some fella,’ I say. ‘No need to turn in your grave.’ I tip some potatoes into a bucket.

  ‘And no need for you to speak to me like that. I’m your mother. Have some respect.’

  ‘Sorry,’ I mumble. I don’t want to tell her about Beau. I don’t want her asking questions. I want to keep him all to myself for now. I shiver slightly as I remember his star-burst kiss. ‘He was just a nice fella,’ I say. ‘Honest. He just brought me home, and that was that. He’s not a lunatic murderer or anything.’