‘I don’t suppose you’ve seen our new barman,’ she begins.
Dot turns her head to blow smoke off to one side. ‘As a matter of fact, I spoke to him when I called round last week to ask Dennis if you were back from your ma’s. To tell you the truth, it was a bit embarrassin’; I could barely take me ruddy eyes off the man.’ After another drag on her cigarette she asks, ‘Is he married?’
‘No. At least, I don’t think so.’
Dot pulls a face. ‘Then there has to be a reason why a man of his age, who looks like that, is still a bachelor.’
‘Maybe he just hasn’t found the right girl yet?’
‘Or maybe he’s one of them?’
Grace frowns. ‘One of what?’
‘One of them – you know; men who don’t like women much; least not in that way. Them who would rather be with other men, if you get my drift.’ Though there’s no one else around, she lowers her voice. ‘Our Reg reckons he knew lots of queers in the army and they’re usually the best lookin’ ones.’
‘You shouldn’t go calling them queer. I mean –’ Grace stops herself. ‘Besides, what about Clark Gable? Or Alan Ladd? Tony flamin’ Curtis even. They’re all really handsome so, by your reckonin’ all of ’em must be –’
‘Nancy-boys?’
‘Oh, for Pete’s sake, Dot – the word is homosexual.’
‘There’s no need to get your hair off; I was only suggestin’ your barman might not be a ladies’ man.’
‘Well I can tell you he is. Alright?’
‘Oh, I see.’ The smoke from Dot’s fag is rising into her face. ‘Got proof of it, then, have ya?’
‘No.’ Grace can feel herself blushing. ‘Of course I bloody well haven’t – not in the way you’re suggestin’. I can just tell he likes women, that’s all I’m sayin’.’
‘Well then – that’s good. Maybe I’ll call round an’ have a drink with you in the saloon bar one night this week an’ hope he takes it from there. That’s if you’ve no objection, like?’
‘Why on earth would I mind one way or the other?’ Grace does her best to look unconcerned.
Dot looks up at the clock. ‘So, what was it you wanted to tell me about your oh-so-handsome barman then?’
‘Only that we’re not sure whether to keep him on or not. Now I’m back, me an’ Dennis can probably manage by ourselves without him.’
Dot stubs out her cigarette. ‘Be a cryin’ shame to get rid of a bloke like that unless you really have to.’ She pokes at a curler. ‘He’s done nothin’ wrong, has he? Not been fiddlin’ the till or summat like that?’
‘No – the man seems honest enough.’
‘Well then, if you want my opinion on the matter, you’ll hang onto him for as long as you can.’ She lifts the towel from her head. ‘Besides, it’ll give me a chance to turn his head with this new hairdo of mine.’ She dips her head down so Grace can get a better view. ‘Look, I’ve put this row of medium sized ones along the top bit so it should stick up a bit like Piper Laurie’s does.’
Grace looks up at the clock. ‘That ten minutes is nearly up. I’d better leave you to it.’
Dot looks crestfallen. ‘But don’t you want to stay an’ see what this turns out like? Witness the brand new me?’
‘Oh, all right then.’ She can never stay cross with her for long. Dot’s been a good friend to her. In fact, since she married Dennis, the girl’s been the only friend that’s stuck by her.
Her husband’s hat and jacket aren’t on the hook. Grace checks the row of keys and the set for the lockup is still missing. The smell of fish and chips lingers in the kitchen; a few burnt chips still nestle in some crumpled and oily newspaper. A couple of teacups lie on their side in the bowl. He hasn’t put the milk away and a quick sniff tells her it’s already on the turn.
Propped against the bread bin, a scribbled note reads: Gone to see our Stanley. Will probably be back late. No need to wait up.
It’s possible he really has gone to see his brother in Bromley this time, but she doubts it. She runs the kitchen tap until the water’s cooler and then gulps down a full glass. Feeling better, she makes herself a fish paste sandwich, which she takes upstairs to the living room.
Straight away she can see their things have been disturbed; someone’s rifled through all the papers on the top of the bureau and a couple of its drawers are sticking out. The stuff they keep on the mantelpiece is all topsy-turvy. When she checks the drawers and cupboards in the bedroom, it’s clear the whole lot’s been pulled about.
There’s no sign of a break in, though the window in the living room is wide open. It would be easy enough for someone to stand on one of the bins and shin up the drainpipe.
It’s not like they keep any valuables up here, not since Dennis disturbed a burglar a couple of years back. After that, they’ve been meticulous about locking up and storing any overnight cash in the safe. Any pub’s a target for thieves; they even discussed putting bars on the upstairs windows. Grace had vetoed that idea – if there was a fire, they’d have no means of escape.
She runs downstairs to check the small safe hidden behind a picture on the kitchen wall. Thank the Lord it’s still firmly shut. She dials the combination, is relieved to see the black cash tin is in there. There’s no money inside, but why would there be? Dennis always puts the day’s float in the till just before opening time. He ought to have paid the weekend takings into the bank on his way to the station.
Behind the empty cash box, there’s a stack of papers – insurance stuff, their various certificates, both passports and, on top of the lot, their ration books. Everything’s where it should be in a neat pile.
The most sensible explanation for the disorder upstairs is that Dennis himself had been frantic to find something – might have been a betting slip he’d lost.
Midway through the afternoon and the stale heat of the day is closing in on Grace. She’s not used to sitting idle in the middle of the day; it makes her feel like a ruddy prisoner in her own home. Somewhere outside a group of kids are laughing and squealing in their backyard. A pigeon lands on the windowsill not a yard away from where she’s sitting and begins a rhythmic cooing. Its curious eyes stare at her while its restless feet shuffle this way and that along the sill like an act in the music hall. Grace shoos the bird away and closes the window in case it has ideas about hopping inside once her back is turned. She drums her fingers on the tabletop. It’s no good – Frank or no Frank, she has to go in there.
The afternoon shift is ending and there’s barely a handful of customers left in the public. The saloon bar appears to be empty.
Frank looks up from washing glasses and smiles at her. Despite her best intentions, the sight of him moves her. His pleasure at seeing her is written all over his face like an open letter anyone might read if they had a mind to.
Grace is careful to keep the gap between them to a respectable distance. She nods to Fat Harry and Wilf, puts some cheer in her voice as she says, ‘Good afternoon, gents.’
‘There’s nothin’ good about it,’ Harry tells her. ‘The missus ’as got me decoratin’ our kitchen – in this flamin’ weather! Paper’s dryin’ out before I can hardly get it on the bloody wall.’
‘Oh, stop all your moanin, will ya?’ Wilf nudges his drinking arm on purpose. ‘She’s hardly held yer nose to the grindstone, ’as she? You’ve been in here a good hour or more.’
‘You don’t know the half of it, mate. I’ve only been let out on strict instructions I’m to have no more than a pint in case I fall off the flamin’ stepladder.’
‘’Spect it’ll all be worth it for the end result,’ Grace suggests.
‘Will it buggery – ’scuse my French, sweetheart – lime green and blue little squiggles everywhere you look.’ He finishes his pint and slams it down on the counter. ‘Hurts yer eyes, it does. Fashionable, she calls it. All them years at sea I was never sick, but I reckon that wallpaper’s gonna do it for me.’
Wilf looks at his watch. ‘Come on, H
arry – sup up, mate. I dare say these two young people are keen to lock up.’
‘No need to rush your drinks,’ Grace tells them though she can see there’s only a couple of minutes to go. She flips the hatch over and goes to collect the handful of empty glasses dotted around the place.
With the counter safely between them, she addresses Frank. ‘I just wondered if Dennis had left you the usual float this mornin’?’
His eyebrows come together. ‘Aye: five quid in change – same as always for a Tuesday morning.’ His gaze sharpens. ‘Is there a problem?’
‘No, no, it’s fine.’ She tries to strike a casual note. ‘I was just wondering if he happened to mention he was goin’ to the bank?’
Her eyes are drawn to Frank’s hands as he works the cloth round the glass, those long, elegant fingers that you wouldn’t expect on a man of his size. The next second she’s reminded of how those same hands caressed every inch of her naked body.
A wave of lust runs through her and straight away there’s a new dampness between her legs like she’s no more than an animal on heat, for goodness’ sake.
‘No – Dennis said nowt to me about what he was up to or where he might be going.’
‘And he seemed quite normal to you, did he?’
He’s frowning now. ‘Far as I could tell, aye.’
On his way to the door, Wilf turns: ‘Be seein’ you both.’ Does she imagine that hint of suspicion in the look he gives her?
Once the last bolt is across, Frank turns to her. ‘Grace, I need to talk to you.’
‘What about?’
‘Surely you can guess?’
‘Am I supposed to read your mind?’ Grace retreats from the glare of the windows, the swirling patterns of sunlight are showing up every flaw in the room, every scrap of dirt. She walks off, heading towards the door to their private quarters.
There’s a thread of anger in his voice as he strides after her. ‘I shouldn’t need to spell it out.’
She turns with her back against the passageway door. ‘Go on then, I’m all ears, Mr Danby; what is it you want to say to me?’
‘Not like this – not when you’re playing games.’ She can see he’s proper angry now. He takes a step closer looking like he might be about to slap her. Is this another side to him – this angry man already making his demands?
He grabs the top of her arm, pulls her towards him until his face is a hair’s breadth from hers. Her heart’s hammering in her chest as she stares up at him.
Grace breaks first; her mouth devouring the taste of him; her hands grabbing those perfect arse cheeks of his until he’s pressed so hard against her it hurts.
She comes up for air. ‘Dennis won’t be back till late tonight.’ Taking hold of his hand, she pulls him along the shadowy passageway.
He stops, yanks her towards him again. The edge of the coat stand is pressing into her flesh and likely to leave a bruise. ‘We mustn’t.’ She has to force the words out of her mouth. ‘We shouldn’t do it – least not in our bed.’
Frank’s smile reveals those perfect teeth of his. In her ear, he whispers: ‘Well then, why don’t we start with the kitchen table?’
Grace stands alone by the cooker. It’s after opening time and Frank’s already gone through to the bars. When she looks at the out-of-its-place table, the wall by the door and then on through to the still-full bathtub – all of them seem invisibly tainted by the acts they’ve just committed. They may not have slept in Dennis’s bed but that was a rather hollow gesture given there’d been no sleeping involved. If Dennis were a dog, he’d smell her out – sniff the two of them together on every surface.
What kind of woman must she be if she’s feeling no shame? In fact, when she thinks over what they’ve just done, the things that linger are to do with how good it felt to let go like that, give in to the demands of the flesh like there was nothing wicked in it after all.
At first, they’d both been too full of need, but then, even with the water sloshing everywhere, it felt tender, natural; like she was caught up in a dance her body had been waiting all these years to perform.
No, this time she feels no guilt and little remorse – what they’ve done is not a betrayal but an act of faith in what nature intended between a man and a woman.
Though she’s almost reluctant to dispose of the evidence of their lovemaking, her sensible self takes control of the situation. She finds herself humming something as she cleans and then laughs out loud when she realises it’s that Hoagy Carmichael song, My Resistance is Low. Ha – non-existent, more like.
Unable to recall the words, she ends up simply humming the tune. She lets out the tepid bathwater and mops up all the puddles on the floor below. It’s a reminder of the previous time Frank was in this bathtub and that mysterious layer of sand he left behind.
Maybe he’s really a merman? The thought tickles her imagination. Yes, Frank Danby’s not really human after all; he’s a sea creature walking amongst them in disguise – only borrowing those legs of his while he’s on dry land.
In the kitchen, she rights the heavy table, having to guess the exact spot it was in before. It seems stable enough, unscathed by the going-over it’s just had. She’s not sure she can say the same about herself.
There’s not much to do at the sink, only a few crocks to wash up. She throws Dennis’s chip paper into the bin and is about to close the lid when something on the newspaper catches her attention. She extracts it again.
Chapter Eighteen
Tuesday nights are normally slow to start with and so far the place is still half empty. A short chap Frank’s not seen before comes up for half a mild. The man’s eyes seem to be darting in every direction.
Frank looks up when Grace strides through, is careful to say: ‘Evening, Mrs Stevenson.’ She just stands there with one hand planted on her hip. Her skirt is hiding whatever it is she’s holding down by her side. Grace looks flustered but doesn’t say a thing until he’s taken the money and rung it into the till.
Walking towards the other bar, she trails the smell of fresh soap in her wake.
‘There’s something I need to show you, Frank.’
‘Oh really.’ He follows on her heels, unable to wipe the smile from his face. ‘I can’t imagine what else that might be, Mrs Stevenson.’
Once they’re in the small recess where they serve saloon customers, she turns to face him. ‘Have you seen this?’ She slaps a piece of newspaper down on the counter.
Someone must have crumpled the paper before she smoothed it out. He can smell the vinegar coming off it. A grease patch covers part of the sky, but the rest of the photograph is clear enough. She jabs a finger at his likeness. Once again he sees the black circle drawn around his head like a noose. ‘They’re callin’ you a bloody hero,’ she says.
He glances away – checks there’s no one in earshot then frowns, shakes his head with some vigour. ‘What are you on about? That’s not me, though I grant you he looks a bit like me.’
As close as the two of them are she must have spotted the involuntary muscle spasm in his cheek. He finds himself rubbing the scar on his forehead like he tends to when he’s nervous. Involuntary they call it – those little jerking movements that can give you away.
Grace moves nearer to whisper: ‘Don’t you dare tell me such a barefaced lie, Frank Danby, and expect me to believe it. D’you hear me?’
Words form in his brain, but he can’t seem to express them. Throwing caution aside, he plants his lips right in her hair and whispers: ‘What can I say to you, Grace? As you can see, I’m a wanted man.’
‘You lied to my face about how you got in such a state on Saturday,’ she hisses. ‘All that business about falling in the lake when it was really the river.’ Her red fingernail jabs the paper again. ‘I’m guessin’ you won’t be claiming this reward. Why would that be, exactly?’
‘We’ll talk about it later,’ he says, his tone deadly serious now. Before she can protest, he walks away.
Grace
doesn’t hang around. He hears the rustle of her skirt as she pushes past him. She slams the door behind her.
He spends the rest of the evening wondering how he’s going to explain himself. It’s likely she’ll sniff out any lie but, on the other hand, the less she knows about any of it, the better it’ll be.
Around nine o’clock the public door opens and Jack Dawson walks in. An audible muttering goes round as the man saunters towards the bar. Everything about him reeks of wealth. He takes off his fancy fedora and leans both hands on the counter, his gold rings glinting like knuckledusters. The tattoo of a raven peeks out from one rolled-up shirtsleeve. He fixes Frank with his pale blue eyes. ‘Pint of bitter, if you please, barman.’
As he’s pulling the man’s pint, Frank notices a sizeable number of drinkers have already left the premises. The rest are watching the man’s every move.
Dawson sniffs at his drink before taking a sip and weighing up the taste like a connoisseur. He spits it back into the glass. ‘Tastes like piss.’ The light bounces off his slicked-back hair as he leans in. ‘Good job I’m not here for the ruddy beer.’ He slams down his glass spilling the contents along the counter. ‘Dennis in the back, is he?’
‘Mr Stevenson went out early this morning. I’m not sure we’re expecting him back for a while – could even be a few days.’
‘Is that so?’ Dawson pulls at his chin like he might be stroking an invisible beard. ‘You’re Frank, aren’t ya? Frank Danby. My brothers tell me you’re in the habit of givin’ out free whiskies. Now why would that be?’
Without waiting for an answer, he picks up his hat. ‘For the beer,’ he says, throwing a shilling down on the counter where it spins before it settles. ‘I always settle my debts.’
At closing time Frank is relieved to lock the doors and start the clearing up. He takes his time about each task, knowing when he’s finished he’ll have to go through and talk to Grace. Should he warn her in some way?
Someone’s pounding on the door of the public bar. Frank decides to ignore whoever it is. ‘Open up, for Christ’s sake!’ He recognises Thin Harry’s voice. ‘I’ve got Dennis out here an’ he’s in a bad way.’
Too Many Heroes Page 12
