It was strictly forbidden to smoke during business hours. Nonie heard footsteps coming down—old Dirty’s she supposed. She stubbed out the cigarette and pushed it under a case as the manager descended into the murky cellar. She sat quite still on the packing-case. His small boat-shaped eyes squinted at her in the dimness, then he switched on the light. He sniffed suspiciously at the smoke. ‘Well, you’re busy I must say,’ he said sarcastically. ‘What’s the matter with you today? Always my little sunshine. Nonie, I always say—that’s the girl for me. What’s come over you, girlie? Giving me notice and all. . . .’
‘I don’t feel well,’ said Nonie coldly. Inwardly she was trembling. (I won’t take it back . . . I won’t! I want to go to that library. I won’t take it back. . . .)
‘If you’re not well you’d better go home,’ he said kindly, patting her arm so that his hand strayed beyond it and across to her breast. ‘Run along home—and take one of those tins of salmon for your Gran.’
Nonie gulped. She simply couldn’t bring herself to push away his hand. Although sick at the thought of those unclean fingers exploring under her overall, she simply could not get up, push him away and walk up the stairs. He picked up a tin of salmon. ‘You take that to the old lady. She’ll relish a bit of salmon . . . won’t she?’
‘Yes . . . thank you, Mr. Durton. . . .’
Coward, coward. . . . Talk of poor Neil, she thought fiercely, he’s not the only yellow one. . . . She drew a breath. ‘I don’t feel bad enough to go home,’ she said calmly. ‘We’re short with Millie away and there’s a lot to do filling the shelves. I’ll take an aspirin with my cup of tea.’
‘Then we’ll say no more about the notice. . . . You like it here, don’t you, Nonie?’ His hand strayed further.
‘It suits me all right,’ said Nonie desperately. Then, thinking of Neil and of how he was despised for doing exactly what she was now doing, she stood up abruptly, almost knocking the man over, and said firmly, ‘Mr. Durton, thank you, but I won’t take this tin, and I do want to leave. I’ve got a chance to work in a library—I’ve always wanted that. A girl ought to better herself. . . .’
‘A married woman, not a girl,’ said the manager nastily. ‘When I married I wouldn’t have allowed my wife to go out to work. These young fellows now—half of them live on their in-laws—and lots of them on their wives.’
‘Charlie doesn’t live on anyone but himself,’ she retorted angrily. ‘I’m working to save up to go to Australia. You know that.’
Joan came down the stairs. ‘Want some tinned beans. What, are you down here?’ She looked suspiciously at the old man and at Nona. There was something going on. Probably old Dirty had been at his tricks again. Nona picked up some tins, ‘Here’s some beans.’
Joan looked at her. They both giggled suddenly at the idea that each was thinking the same thing.
‘That’ll do, Miss Collins—the notice can remain.’
He picked up the tin of salmon and replaced it in the case.
Why did I do it? Why? Why? Gran’ll be upset—she’ll miss the tins and the tit-bits—and she’s no opinion of libraries because of Father always quoting from books. . . . And the pay’ll be less just as we want money with Len gone. Why am I like this today? Why? Is it only Neil—or is it me?—or is it Charlie?
It was just before they closed that Miss Rhodes came in. She looked quickly round the shop and made for Nona. Good afternoon, Nona. I’ve just come from your grandmother.’ There was a pause. What’s she going to say? Does she know? Why’s she come? Aloud she said, ‘Good afternoon, Miss Rhodes.’
‘I want some cocktail biscuits—some cheese-flavoured ones,’ said her customer briskly, seeing the manager eyeing them inquisitively. Nona went to find a tin, only to discover, as with the ham, that a new one had to be opened. She placed the large square tin on the counter, took a knife to cut through the airtight binding.
‘You’ve cut yourself,’ observed Miss Rhodes.
‘Did it this morning opening a tin of ham.’ Nona did not look at the social worker; she kept her eyes on what she was doing.
‘Your grandmother,’ began Miss Rhodes, ‘is upset today. Something is worrying her. She ought not to be worried. She’s really very ill. You know that?’
How I hate her, thought the girl, cutting deftly round the tin, as if I didn’t know that Gran’s not got much longer. What does she think of us? That we’re callous and devoid of any feeling?
‘You can’t stop people worrying, said Nona, looking up suddenly so that Miss Rhodes got the full impact of the eyes. Strange, slanting, intelligent eyes, hazel and black-ringed. They made Miss Rhodes faintly uncomfortable; they were so like that boy’s.
‘I saw your brother,’ she said abruptly. The knife slipped and Nona just saved her thumb from being cut.
‘And?’ she said evenly. How could he? How could he? I might have known it would happen like this. Neil’s not the one to get away with anything. . . .
‘He fell into the room. I wasn’t meant to see him. The bed gave way and he fell against the door.’ She did not add that he had been obviously eavesdropping, leaning all his weight on one corner of the bed.
The tin was open. Nonie removed the paper shavings, the protective pads. ‘Half a pound?’ she asked.
‘A pound.’ She began to weigh them out.
‘I’ve packed up here,’ said Nona. ‘Gave my notice this morning.’ She expected Miss Rhodes to say that there was that library job and that she would put in a good word for her. But Miss Rhodes said nothing, except, ‘I expect you get tired of working with foodstuffs—especially in summer.’
Nona put the biscuits in a bag, her hands were trembling. I must ask her. I must, she thought agitatedly. I can’t go back to Gran and say I’ve packed up, when there’s no other job in the offing. But there were jobs enough for the asking. No one wanted them. They all wanted bigger wages than the shops could give. She could walk right into another one of this sort this very afternoon. But she wanted that library one. If she got experience, she could work in a library in Australia.
‘Miss Rhodes,’ she began nervously, ‘you mentioned once to me about a library job. Could you help me to get it? I do so want a change. Half a pound of coffee—continental roast.’ Nona fetched the beans, put them in the mill and began laboriously to grind them.
‘Good gracious. Haven’t you got an electric machine for that?’
‘One’s on order, madam. Been on order some time,’ came the suave voice of old Dirty.
So he’s listening, thought Nonie desperately. Does she know about Neil? Does she?
‘Been on order ever since I’ve worked here,’ she said.
Above the noise of the grinding she looked anxiously at Miss Rhodes for an answer. When it came Nona could have hurled the beans to the floor in her disappointment.
‘I’m afraid that job’s filled,’ she said calmly. ‘It was some time ago you know. You didn’t seem keen. About your brother, let me give you some advice; that’s why I really came in.’ Above the noise of the coffee mill she said, speaking quietly and carefully, ‘He must go back. There’s no question about it. You’re committing a felony in harbouring a deserter.’
Nonie stared contemptuously at her, scooped the ground coffee out of the drawer, poured it neatly and expertly into a red bag, ‘That’s three and ten—it’s the best roast,’ she said non-committally, ‘and four shillings the biscuits.’
Miss Rhodes looked at the set face. She’s not giving anything away, she’s a pretty kid—horribly pretty—the sort that men like—Rodney, for instance, would love her. At the thought of Rodney, and tonight’s date with him, she felt agitated. She no longer looked forward to those evenings with Rodney. He wasn’t really her sort—but she could no longer choose her sort because they chose others, girls more like this little twin sister of the deserter. Rodney was too highly coloured, too synthetically glossy, too sure of himself. She didn’t like him really, but he took her out, and she had to have an escort. She co
uldn’t go out alone.
Rodney was in advertising, and he looked somehow like one of his own lay-outs for an advertisement of himself. Even his car was flashy, his hair an advertisement of the virile he-men in women’s magazines.
Because her mind was on Rodney, she did not notice Nonie’s pale face or the worried lines on her usually smooth forehead.
‘I took your grandmother some more wool,’ she observed as the girl handed her a slip for the cashier.
‘Thank you. She gets through it very fast.’
‘Yes. That rug will soon be finished.’
‘When your brother has gone back, we’ll see what can be done about that library job. They’re particular there of course. They expect—and get—good references.’
So she’s not going to play unless I do. When your brother has gone back. What does she mean? What’s she playing at? Oh, why did Neil have to let her know he’s there? Why?
She replaced the biscuit tin lid listlessly without bidding Miss Rhodes goodbye.
I suppose she’s upset that I know about the brother. These young girls are all the same—no manners, no interest in their work. . . . Miss Rhodes gathered up her parcels from the counter and left.
Nonie, replacing the biscuit tin on the shelf, saw that the manager was staring interestedly at her. What’s she going to do about Neil? I didn’t like her manner; it was almost threatening. She felt that she couldn’t stand one more minute of the smell of pig—bacon, ham, sausages, lard. Poor pigs, they have a lot to answer for, she thought, but the people who bought them had even more. I’ve got to get out of here. . . . She leaned against the marble counter for a moment. Then she said fiercely, Pull yourself together, you miserable jelly-baby. You’re no better than your twin. She took several deep breaths and said quickly and loudly, ‘I’m going now, Mr. Durton. I’m sorry but I’m wanted at home. Miss Rhodes has just come to tell me so.’ And before the manager could recover from this impertinence, she had rushed through to the corridor where they hung their coats, snatched hers, and darted through the side door to the street.
CHAPTER IX
MRS. Collins, exhausted by Miss Rhodes’ visit and its consequences, took to her bed again. She had been up for several hours in her basket chair and her back hurt. Neil was finishing his bread plastered with raspberry jam and gulping down the last drop of tea. His grandmother watched him take the tray back to the kitchenette. He loved messing about in the kitchen. Nona liked to tinker about with Charlie’s motor-cycle. She would spend all Sunday mornings out at the back working with Charlie on the machine while Neil would be blissfully happy cooking the midday meal for them all. She heard him washing up the cups and plates. Nona would have left them until she was obliged to do them.
Remembering that her neighbours would be wondering why she had not had her radio on all day she switched it on, amused at her efforts at deception. She tuned in to ‘Music while you work’. She liked music and enjoyed this programme. Her husband Jim had had a fine voice with the same magnetic quality as their son Edward’s had. But Jim had used his to sing in a famous choir, not to go round the country stirring up trouble in the industrial areas as Edward did.
She was late in switching on because of Miss Rhodes’ visit, and almost at once the music ended to be followed by ‘Mrs. Dale’s Diary’. She listened for a few minutes to the imaginary difficulties made in order to be overcome in the life of the fictitious doctor’s wife. Words, more words . . . sometimes she couldn’t stand them, but today she wondered what Mrs. Dale would do in her place. Now, here’s one for you to solve my girl! What would you do? Send him back between two guards to the glass-house, to the possible year in a civil jail? Send him back to the reveille at 5 a.m., to the relentless harrying and chivvying, to the never-letting-up of the sergeant’s enforced discipline, to everything done at the double, of never being allowed to stop for one moment from the stone-breaking, the sack-sewing, the scrubbing of cells, the cleaning of equipment? Would you, Mrs. Dale? Yes, perhaps you would—as I know I ought. As I’ve done twice already. But what’s the use? It didn’t do Neil a bit of good, not a bit. And what would he have done had he been sent to Cyprus, I wonder? Neil’s the sort who can only go in for imaginary heroics just as you have to deal with these imaginary problems. But Jim always said that it was just that sort who actually did achieve real heroism in his war—the First World one.
I’m in a real mess, she worried. How can I go and fetch Len’s medal with it on my conscience that I’ve helped his brother to desert? What would you do about that one, Mrs. Dale? She switched the programme off impatiently. Compared with the urgency of her own problem it all seemed too trite. Everyone was too kind and helpful. People weren’t like that in real life, not a bit. They were more like Mrs. Danvers who was probably listening outside the door now; and like old Mr. Evans who was always robbing her of her change . . . and here she was talking away to herself as much as Edward talked to anyone who would listen.
‘Neil,’ she called softly. He came in, apprehensive and anxious. His face was drawn and old. The thinness of his cheek-line, the sharpness of the jaw, the horizontal lines across the normally smooth forehead and the tight Adam’s apple when he swallowed nervously had a vulnerability as potent as that small white bit at the nape of his neck. She felt another agonising wave of pity flood her, but thrust it away relentlessly. Pity had never been anyone’s friend.
‘You’ve slept, eaten, and you look better,’ she said evenly. ‘Now sit down, Neil. We’d better get talking about your plans. There’s one person knows your identity—and almost certainly two. Mrs. Danvers will have said something to Miss Rhodes about her suspicions.’
‘Damn Mrs. Danvers,’ he said angrily. ‘What’s it got to do with her?’
‘There’s no privacy when you’re old and sick any more than there’s any up at your camp. We all know one another’s business here. What else is there for us to do? Your desertions and arrests were the highlight of their lives here. They’re, always on the look-out now. It’s no use blaming them, it’s your coming back which has upset the apple cart.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he mumbled.
‘Supposing every lad who couldn’t get on up there ran away? It’d be like one of those strikes your father’s so fond of working up.’
‘It wouldn’t be a strike, it would be a mutiny . . .’ he said sullenly.
‘When I was your age I was working in the Home where my parents left me. I scrubbed, washed, mended and ironed for all the younger children. I was at everyone’s beck and call. I got up at five and fell on my bed after eleven at night, often too tired to undress. I didn’t run away—there was nowhere to run to. . . .’
‘Things were different then,’ muttered the boy. ‘It wouldn’t be allowed now. That’s what gets us. Only the Army dare treat humans like that. The Trade Unions don’t help the conscripts. . . .’
‘Don’t start talking like your father. When he gets on to Trade Unions I switch off. I stop my ears.’
‘A lot of what Dad says is sense. . . .’
‘And most of it is drivel, cheap stuff you can read in any Red rag, if you’re stupid enough. If I thought you were going to start talking like your father I’d send you back right now.’
‘I wouldn’t go,’ he said defiantly.
‘You’d have to,’ said his grandmother flatly, ‘as you did before. Let’s quit this shilly-shallying. Why did you desert again?’
He did not answer but sat there swinging one leg against the bedpost. ‘Don’t do that. They’ll know there’s someone here. I don’t go knocking my feet like that. . . .’
‘If I tell you . . .’ he began, ‘will you promise . . .’ when a shadow fell over the window and a child’s voice was heard singing ‘Angels Ever Bright and Fair’. The words fell high and clear on the heavy air and increased in volume. The singer was evidently coming nearer. Then light skipping steps approached as the song continued. . . . The last words, ‘Take, Oh Take Me to Your Care’ were run without a pause into . . .
‘Gran Collins! Gran Collins! . . .’ and a child’s face was framed between the geraniums.
With the movement of the hunted, Neil had dropped down on the floor. . . . ‘Gran Collins, Gran Collins, can I come in?’
‘It’s the child Linda. Keep down there and crawl into the room next door. She’s sharp. You can’t fool her.’
Neil began crawling along the floor on his stomach, like a worm, making for the door behind the bed. His grandmother began rolling herself over to unfasten the window latch again. In spite of her anxiety her face lit up at the sight of the little girl standing outside. She unfastened the window again, and the child repeated her question, ‘Gran Collins, Gran Collins, can I come in?’ And the old woman answered as she was expected to do. The formula for every visit were the words of the story of the three little pigs and the wolf. ‘No! No! by the hair of my Chinny Chin Chin! . . .’ And after three times the child would cry, ‘Then I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll blow your house in!’ And with a shriek would jump on to the bed.
She stood now on the window-sill, framed provocative and laughing against the light, making huffing blowing noises, then she dropped lightly, and with a final shriek, on to the end of the bed. ‘There . . . I won’t eat you up today . . . I’m going to tuck you in properly. Look, I’ve brought you some flowers.’ She handed the old woman a wilting bunch of white carnations.
‘Lovely, darling. Where did you get them? From your old friend with the barrow?’
The Fledgeling Page 10
