‘Be sure to look after theself, lad,’ Ma Jenkins had said. Her sudden motherly hug had stirred too many memories.
Sam’s reaction was different. ‘But I don’t understand,’ the lad wailed at him. ‘I mean, I know you had some sort of argument with that bloody keeper in the pub, but I thought –’ He turned away then, his face screwed up in a manner that suggested he was close to blubbing.
Frank touched his shoulder unsure whether to pat or squeeze and settling on an awkward mix of the two. ‘Look on the bright side, lad – we’ve finished all the shearing now and the flock’s in fine fettle.’ He soon let his hand drop away. ‘Things will be easy enough for you and your dad to manage here till August and then them factory lads will be along as usual to help out with the haymaking and that.’
‘But that’s not the flaming point, is it? I thought we were mates; that we were a team you and me. Why the hell do you want to go and up sticks just because you’ve had a bit of a run-in with old Kirkwood?’
‘It’s not about that, lad,’ Frank said, with a careful nonchalance. ‘I could do with a penny for every little argy-bargy I’ve had with some bugger in a pub after a few pints – I’d be a rich man by now.’
He allowed his smile to falter then. ‘Look, Sam, the honest truth is that I’ve stayed here longer than I meant to. It’s high time I was moving on to pastures new and all that.’
Eyes gleaming with tears and pain, Sam looked straight at him. ‘Then I’m coming with you.’
The train’s long, mournful whistle shakes him from his reverie. In any case, it’s better he doesn’t dwell on the rest of it – how at the end the lad had practically begged to be taken along. He was embarrassed by Sam’s strength of feeling, the way he clung onto his shirtsleeve more like a woman he was spurning than a grown man.
Shaking his head at the memory, Frank re-enters the empty carriage and sits down next to the window.
After the next stop, a dapper looking chap comes in. ‘Good morning to you,’ he says, taking off his hat and placing it on one of the empty seats. Before he sits down, he’s careful to pull his well-pressed trousers up at the knees.
‘Morning,’ Frank says, averting his gaze to the window.
‘Not much of a day out there, though I suppose the gardens have need of the water,’ the man says. He fills and lights his pipe and then holds it clenched between his teeth. ‘You off up to the big city, then; to The Smoke, as they like to call it?’
The man sucks hard on his pipe until he’s satisfied with its outpourings and the small compartment is overwhelmed by the smell of burning tobacco. His unblinking brown eyes are upon Frank, poised for his answer.
‘Something like that,’ Frank mutters into the liquid windowpane.
Taking the hint at last, the man extracts a sharply folded newspaper from under his arm and spreads it out in front of him.
Frank can see it’s the local rag. On the back page there’s a report of the county cricket match between Worcestershire and Yorkshire. He leans forward to read the comments about the play so far. Before he can finish reading, the man turns the page, gives the whole thing a shake and then folds it in half. Next thing, he extracts a silver pen from his breast pocket and begins to fill in the answers to the crossword puzzle.
As the journey continues, the carriage starts to fill up with more passengers and is soon clouded with their smoke. Frank steps out into the corridor to enjoy its better ventilation and the views of the ever-retreating countryside.
They’re now passing rows and rows of houses with narrow back gardens – all of them the same and yet each a little different. As the train slows, the dapper man pushes past him to alight at the next stop.
He returns to the carriage to check on his case. The dapper chap’s left his spent newspaper on the seat. He’s quick to retrieve it before someone else does.
The headlines are all about the local preparations for Coronation Day, even though it’s a whole year away.
Frank turns to the inside pages. Halfway down, a headline draws his attention. Gamekeeper Blinded by Own Shotgun. Frank reads on, his heart beating faster.
Lord Hathaway has confirmed reports that the head gamekeeper on his estate,. Norman Kirkwood, 51, is lucky to be alive after an unfortunate accident involving the man’s own gun left him badly injured and blinded in his right eye. Police investigators, called to the scene of the accident, have concluded that the barrel of the keeper’s own gun must have become blocked by debris. This resulted in a build-up of pressure which led to the explosion that then shattered part of the upper barrel and propelled particles of shrapnel into the unfortunate man’s face and upper body. His Lordship told our reporter, Peter Blackburn, “The speculation is, that Mr Kirkwood must have previously stumbled upon soft ground and this resulted in a small quantity of earth becoming lodged inside one of the barrels. Subsequently, Mr Kirkwood, having quite forgotten this earlier incident, discharged his gun whilst shooting at magpies without first checking that both its barrels were clear.” Lord Hathaway went on to express his sincere regret that “a first-rate fellow who’d faithfully served the Hathaway family, man and boy, for 35 years has been forced to retire prematurely from the job he loved due to a moment’s carelessness.”
With trembling hands, Frank folds the newspaper in half and then in half again and again; each time flattening it with care until the whole thing’s compact enough to fit inside his jacket pocket.
Chapter Three
Friday June 13th 1952
Grace folds the envelope in two and stuffs it into her apron pocket. With the doctor about to call round any minute, there’s no time to read what her husband might have to say for himself. Nerves frayed by thoughts of what he’s written, she half jumps out of her skin when the doorbell rings.
The sun is glinting off his wire-framed spectacles, hiding the physician’s eyes. He lifts his hat and, as always, she’s struck by the pure soft white of his hair. A gull wheels overhead, filling the air with its cry; the stream of droppings it releases just misses the right shoulder of the man’s jacket.
‘I’m here to see Mrs Schmidt,’ he tells her, like she might be the maid.
‘Yes. She’s expectin’ you, Doctor; I’ll take you on up.’
He deposits his hat on the hallstand before following on her heels. Grace can hear his laboured breathing behind her as they climb the steep stairs together. It reminds her of the phrase her father was fond of using: Physician: heal thyself.
She opens the bedroom door and then has to step aside so there’s enough room for him to get around the bed. This house – her mother’s house that’s never been hers – is a segment of a building that’s been cut too thin like a cake that won’t quite go round.
‘So, how are we today?’ The old man is struggling to find his breath along with a space for his bag on the cluttered bedside chest.
‘You tell me,’ her mother says, putting on that weak voice. (Though she’d enough breath to shout her orders down not ten minutes ago.) When she sits up, the coughing begins again. This time it seems more for effect – what’s expected if you call a busy doctor to your bedside.
Her mother’s bony hands instinctively tidy her hair with its newly grey roots, pressing the curls into place and adding volume to the back where the pillows flattened it. He may be a medical man but he’s still a man after all and it’s clear that she’s trying to look her best in front of him. Last week she’d hadn’t cared one way or the other.
The doctor takes a thermometer from his bag and shakes it. Her mother opens her mouth like a baby bird. He unravels his stethoscope. Knowing the drill, her mother unbuttons her bed jacket and then the front buttons of her nightie.
He warms the chest-piece in the palm of his hand so that its touch doesn’t shock her bare skin. ‘Breathe in for me, Mrs Schmidt,’ he says. ‘That’s right. Now out again. Slowly. That’s grand. Now in again.’ He repeats the same instructions several more times as he leans over to check her back as well. Next, he removes the
thermometer and squints at it over the top of his glasses.
It’s so quiet Grace can hear his breathing as the two of them await the verdict.
‘Well now,’ he begins, putting away his instruments with care. ‘I’m pleased to say we appear to have turned a corner at last. There’s been a marked response to the new medication; the infection in your lungs seems to have cleared up nicely.’ He clips his bag shut. ‘You’re on the mend; though I suggest you continue to take things a little easier for the next few days or so.’
The doctor has to lean on the edge of the bed to stand. ‘I expect you to make a complete recovery, Mrs Schmidt.’ It takes him a while longer to fully straighten up.
‘Please, Doctor, I prefer you to use the name Smith, if you wouldn’t mind,’ she reminds him.
‘Quite so,’ he says, giving no indication that he’s taken any more notice than the last time she said it.
Her mother’s fingers are wrestling with the closure of each button. From the expression on her face, you’d think the news was a disappointment.
Before he leaves the room, the doctor says, ‘You know, with the weather as fine as it is, I think perhaps a short stroll outside and a dose of our famous sea air might do you the world of good, Mrs umm –’ He fails to complete the sentence before he exits the room.
Her mother barely remembers to call out her thanks.
The doctor grips the shuddering handrail as he descends the stairs one step at a time. Grace follows behind, thanking him once again for all his trouble.
‘I shouldn’t need to visit again,’ he tells her, putting his hat on. ‘Tell your mother to come and see me at the surgery in a week’s time.’ He peers over his specs. ‘I don’t mind telling you now, I thought we were going to lose her a few weeks back; I’m pleased to see she’s made of sterner stuff. Good day to you, miss.’
Just as she’s closing the front door, her mother calls down: ‘Gretchen!’
Before she’s finished all the oxtail soup, her mother sinks back into the pillows and shuts her eyes. ‘We need to get some fresh air in here,’ Grace says. When she opens the casement window, a skein of gulls flies past crying out in a mournful chorus.
‘That’s too much, Gre – Grace; anybody would think you were doin’ your best to finish me off.’
A breeze stirs the curtain. ‘But you heard what Doctor Kirkpatrick said – we need to get you up and out of this damn bed.’
‘Those doctors don’t know everything, you know.’ The sides of her mother’s mouth drop back into those twin frown lines.
‘It’s a beautiful day out there. I can help you get dressed; help you put on a bit of powder and some lipstick, if you’d like. The sky’s as clear as a bell. D’you remember what Vati used to say about Brighton, before the war?’ She decides not to add: before they locked him up.
‘Your father said a lot of things.’
‘Yes, but he used to say that if you squint your eyes up a bit when the sun’s shining, Brighton seafront could be the Promenade des Anglais in Nice.’
‘He must have been in his cups good an’ proper to go saying such a daft thing.’
‘Why don’t we take a turn along it this afternoon? If we catch the bus down, we could be there in five minutes. It’s a perfect day for a bit of a stroll along to the pier – you know how you love all that.’
When her mother’s face brightens a little, Grace decides to keep going. ‘They’ll have the deckchairs out if you need to sit down. Eh, we could even treat ourselves to fish and chips a bit later.’
‘Well, I suppose that would make a nice change from all that soft stuff you’ve bin givin’ me recently.’
It’s a good sign when her mother insists on dressing herself. While she’s in the bath, Grace lays out her clean clothes on the bed – underwear, that smart grey skirt, the patterned blouse she’s fond of and one of her thicker cardigans. A couple of weeks back she thought she might have to do something similar to dress her corpse.
Grace had been summoned here by Mrs Woodall’s telegram:
COME AT ONCE STOP ELSIE IN A POOR WAY STOP.
For once her mother was delighted to see her. ‘I told Kathy you’d come an’ look after your old mum. She’s bin doin’ her best but she’s got her Bill to see to. It’s never the same as yer own flesh an’ blood.’
Now she’s so much better, the peace can’t last. It’s clear from what the doctor said that she’ll be able to manage by herself soon enough. Up till these last few weeks, the two of them haven’t managed to remain civil in each other’s company for more than a couple of days.
By Monday, or possibly Tuesday, Elsie will be more than hinting that the place is too small for the two of them. Once she’s re-dyed her hair and the signs of illness have faded from her face, she’ll convince herself she looks a good ten years younger than she is. Having such a grown-up daughter was always an embarrassment she could do without.
While she listens out, Grace takes her mother’s apron off. She fiddles with her wedding ring, turning it round and round. The envelope in the pocket crackles for attention. It doesn’t weigh much – he must have felt he could say all that was necessary on a single sheet. (She’d need a whole flaming pad to say what was needed to that man.)
In truth, she’s more than tempted not to open it. The gas ring’s only an arm’s length away – she could set fire to the damn thing unopened and be rid of it.
Another minute ticks by before her curiosity gets the better of her.
My dearest Grace, he begins, his slanting handwriting surprisingly neat for once. She scans through all the usual promises. With her gone, wouldn’t you know he’s seen the light and from now on she’ll find him a changed man. Come home soon. I’ve missed you more than words can express. That last bit sounds like a line he might have got from a song. He signs off: Your ever-loving husband, Dennis. xxxx
The kettle whistles for her attention. Hmm; your never-loving husband would be more honest of the man. Oh, she knows he loves her after a fashion, but the sad fact is, not in the way a man should love his wife.
Through into the next room, that pile of bedding is mocking her from the end of the sofa. When all’s said and done, how many more nights can she bear to spend half falling off that ruddy thing? No, she can’t stay here indefinitely, that’s for sure.
Her friend Dot is fond of reminding her how she’s still young and how, with her looks, there’s plenty of time for her to start again. ‘Get yourself a decent one this time,’ as she puts it.
A few months back, Dot even offered to have a chat on the QT with ‘Our Reggie’ – a cousin who’d now got a job as a solicitor’s clerk. A week or so later, they met up in a café on the corner of West Lane. Dot wasn’t her usual self – she was slow to sit down, took her time removing her headscarf and then fluffing up her dark hair. Before she uttered a word, the girl’s face had said it all. Stirring her tea over and over, she’d told Grace: ‘Our Reggie says getting a divorce ain’t as easy as all that.’ Leaning right over, she whispered: ‘They’d have to make your case in the court and afterwards they report all the details – even the intimate ones – in the newspapers.’
From her handbag, Dot pulled out a scruffy piece of paper. ‘I’ve written it all down for you. Reggie says you have to have–’ She ran her finger under the words as she read them out. ‘Cast iron proof of his adultery or his cruelty.’
Reading for herself upside down, Grace noticed how Dot had underlined the words adultery and cruelty.
‘If you can’t prove either of them, he has to desert you.’ (Underlined.) She looked up. ‘Not just for a night or two – he has to properly bugger off an’ not come back.’ Dot’s finger travelled down the paper to the last sentence. ‘Failing all of them, he’d have to be certified with incurable madness.’ (For some reason she’d underlined incurable twice.)
The clock in her mother’s kitchen strikes the half hour. They’re going to have to get a move on if they’re to catch the quarter to. Grace refolds her letter
and puts it back in its torn envelope. Instead of the gas ring, she takes it over to the empty fireplace, holds it upright, strikes a match and sets the edge of it on fire.
Watching the fire’s progress, she turns the letter onto its side to give the flames a better chance. They lick across the surface blackening her name care of her mother’s address.
Though the heat becomes intense, she only lets go when the flames begin to scorch her fingertips.
Chapter Four
Friday 20th June
By a quarter to three, the stragglers have all left and Frank locks and bolts the outside doors in turn. Though you wouldn’t know it from the gloom of the public bar, the sky outside is cloudless – another scorcher of a day.
Going from table to table, he collects the last of the empties and lines them up on the bar alongside the piled-up ashtrays. He takes a certain pride in washing the glasses and polishing them up with the drying cloth. Dealing with all those butt ends is the worst part of this job; however much he scrubs at his hands the reek of stale tobacco seems to linger on his skin. Perhaps he’s already beginning to acquire the same ingrained smell as everything else in this pub.
Over the years smoke has stained the low ceiling the colour of dried dung. Sometimes, Frank thinks he must be the only man in London who doesn’t smoke. Of course he’s tried it more than a couple of times, especially during the war when every bugger seemed to find them such a comfort, but each time the bitter heat in his throat turned his stomach. Odd how some take offence by him shaking his head when they offer the packet round.
In these last few weeks, he’s even losing his taste for beer now that it’s free and plentiful; he’s heard the same thing said about biscuit lovers working in the local biscuit factory. It’s something to do with the smell of it always hanging in the air.
Frank’s progressed to the bottling-up when a young woman walks out of the passageway that leads from the back. She simply stands there in the middle of the room with her hands on her hips, looking around the place like she owns it.
Too Many Heroes Page 3
