In a Dry Season

by Peter Robinson

  “Did she tell you anything about her past?”

  “She never spoke much about that at all. From what little I could gather, it must have been very painful for her, so I just thought if she doesn’t want to talk about it, then that’s all right with me. All she said was that she lost her family in the Blitz. She did sometimes seem very distracted. She had deep, quiet, sad moods that would just come on her out of nowhere, in the middle of a picnic, at a dance, whatever. But not often.”

  “How did she fit into village life?”

  “Well,” said Alice, “I suppose that depends on your point of view. At first she wasn’t around very much. Land-girls worked very long hours. After she’d married Matthew and moved to Bridge Cottage we saw a bit more of her.”

  “Did she have any enemies? Anyone who had reason to dislike her?”

  “Quite a few people disapproved of her. Jealous, if you ask me. Gloria didn’t care what people thought of her. She went in the pubs by herself, and she smoked in the street. I know that’s nothing now, love, the street’s the only place you can smoke in some places, but back then it was . . . well, to some people it meant you were nigh on being a prostitute. People had some funny ideas back then.” She shook her head slowly. “They call them the good old days, but I’m not so sure. There was a lot of hypocrisy and intolerance. Snobbery, too. And Gloria was far too cheeky and flighty for some people.”

  “Anyone in particular?”

  “Betty Goodall could never take to her. Betty always was a bit of a snob, and a bit too high church, too, if you ask me, but she’s a good soul underneath it all, don’t get me wrong. She has a good heart. She was always just a bit too quick with her moral judgements. I think she fancied Matthew Shackleton for herself, and I think it rather put her nose out of joint, Matthew marrying Gloria. Like I said, Gloria was free and easy in her nature, besides being a real ‘stunna,’ as they say in the papers these days. I think a lot of women were just plain jealous of her.”

  Annie smiled. From Alice’s description of Betty Goodall, she could imagine what a time Banks would be having up in Edinburgh. “Betty Goodall wasn’t in the photograph,” she remarked.

  “No. Betty and William had gone by then. He was some sort of dogsbody with the Home Guard, and they kept sending him from council to council. Not fit for real war work, apparently, and no one could quite figure out what to do with him.”

  “Do you know if Gloria actually did anything to merit such disapproval, or was it simply because of her nature, her personality?”

  “Oh, dear. You want me to tell tales out of school?”

  Annie laughed. “Not if you don’t want to. But it is a long time ago, and it might help us find her killer.”

  “Oh, I know, love. I know.” Alice waved her hand. “Just let me get my cigarettes. I usually have one after my elevenses, one after lunch and one after tea. And perhaps one with a nightcap before bed. But never more than five a day.” She got up and brought her handbag over, fiddled for a packet of Dunhill and lit one with a slim gold lighter.

  “Now then, dearie, where was I?”

  “I wanted to know if Gloria had affairs, slept around.”

  “Certainly no more than a lot of others did then, ones you’d generally consider ‘nice’ girls. But people made a lot of assumptions about Gloria just because she was a free-thinking woman and spoke her mind. She definitely was a bit of a flirt, there’s no denying that. But that doesn’t mean anything, does it? It’s just a bit of fun.”

  “Depends on who you flirt with.”

  “I suppose so. Anyway, I may have been naïve, but I think there was more smoke than fire. Most of the time.”

  “What did you think of Matthew?”

  “Not very much, to tell you the truth. There was always something just a bit too smarmy and cocky about him for my taste. Oh, he was nice enough on the outside, handsome and charming, and one had to feel sorry for what happened to him later.”

  “What happened?”

  “Killed by the Japanese. Over in Burma. Anyway, Matthew was a big talker. I also heard he got more than one lass in the family way before Gloria came on the scene, while he was a student in Leeds. So he was no saint, wasn’t Matthew Shackleton, though to hear some speak you’d think butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. Some folk said she only married him because he was a bright, handsome lad with a great future ahead of him—which seems to me like a very good reason to marry someone. I’m sure he made her all kinds of promises about how wonderful their future would be. He filled her head full of dreams of the many things he would build and the far-off exotic lands they’d visit and all that rubbish. Underneath it all, Gloria was a romantic. I think she fell in love with this new world Matthew painted for her. The bridges and cathedrals he was going to build, and her by his side. She was impatient for it all.”

  “How did Gloria take his death?”

  “She was heartbroken. Devastated. I was worried about her and I mentioned it to Gwen once or twice. Gwen said she’d be okay in a while, but then Gwen didn’t look too good herself, either. Very close, they were, her and Matthew. Anyway, when Gloria started to go out again, she was more devil-may-care, you know, the way some people get when they feel they’ve nothing left to lose. A lot of people were like that then.” She paused and took another drag on her cigarette, then fiddled with the chain around her neck.

  “So Gloria started going out again, to dances and things?”

  “Yes, a few months later.”

  “When did she form her relationship with Michael Stanhope, the artist?”

  “Oh, he’d always been around. He was at their wedding. Gloria spent a lot of time with him. Used to drink with him in the Shoulder of Mutton. That’s another reason those religious types disapproved of her.”

  “Did you know Stanhope?”

  “Just to say hello to. Michael Stanhope. I haven’t thought of him in years. He was an eccentric. Always wearing that floppy hat of his. And the cane. Very affected. There’s was no mistaking that he was an Artist, if you know what I mean. I can’t say I had much time for him, myself, but I think he was harmless enough. Anyway, he wouldn’t have had anything to do with Gloria. It was all just a show.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He was a homosexual, dearie. Queer as a three-pound note, as we used to say. Anyway, as you probably know, it was illegal back then.”

  “I see. Would it surprise you to know that a painting of Gloria by Michael Stanhope did show up?” Annie asked.

  “It did?”

  “Yes. A nude. It’s in Leeds City Art Gallery.”

  Alice put her hand to her mouth and laughed. “Well, bless my soul. It is really? A nude? Of Gloria? Still, I can’t say it really surprises me. Gloria was never really shy about her body. I told you about the swimming party, didn’t I? I’m not much of a one for art galleries, but I must go see it next time I’m in Leeds.”

  “What was their relationship?”

  “I think they genuinely liked one another. They were friends. Both of them were outsiders, free-thinkers. On some strange level, they understood one another. And I think she genuinely liked him and respected him as a painter. Not that she was an intellectual or anything, but she responded to his work. It touched her in some way.”

  Annie could understand that. Over the years, her father had had many female friends who genuinely admired his art. No doubt he had also slept with some of them, but then Ray certainly wasn’t homosexual, and it didn’t mean the women hadn’t respected him as a painter, too. “Was she involved with anyone in particular after her husband’s death?” she asked.

  “She had a bit of a fling with a Yank from Rowan Woods called Billy Joe something or other. I never did like him. Wouldn’t trust him and those bedroom eyes of his as far as I could throw him. She got a bit of a reputation for hanging around with American airmen, disappearing into the woods late at night, that sort of thing.” Alice winked. “Not that she was the only one.”

  “Do you think the
re was anything in it?”

  “I’d be surprised if there wasn’t. I think she was lonely.

  And she was also lovely. We met a lot of them, Betty, Cynthia, Gloria, Gwen and me. We’d go to dances, mostly at the base or in Harkside. There were a few in Hobb’s End, at the church, but they were rather tame affairs. Betty Goodall tended to take charge, and I’m sure you can imagine there wasn’t much fun to be had. Betty was a keen dancer—oh, did she love to dance—but it was all waltzes and foxtrots, old-fashioned stuff. No jitterbugging. She was good, though. Her and Billy went in for ballroom dancing in a serious way after the war. Won trophies and all. Where was I?”

  “Dances. Americans.”

  “Oh, yes. Well, let’s face it, most of the local lads were at war, except those unfit for service or in reserved occupations. And they just hung out in the Shoulder of Mutton and complained all the time. The Americans were different. They talked differently, spoke about places we’d only dreamed of or seen at the pictures. They were exotic. Exciting. They also had all sorts of things we hadn’t been able to get because of rationing. You know, nylons, cigarettes and that stuff. We were friendly with PX, which was the nickname of the chap who ran their stores, sort of quartermaster, I suppose, and he used to get us all sorts of stuff. Gloria in particular. She was definitely his favourite. But she was everyone’s favourite. Gloria was like a beautiful, exotic butterfly; she attracted every man who met her. There was something special about her. She sparkled and glowed. She radiated it.”

  “This PX, what was his real name?”

  “Sorry, love, I can’t remember. Come to think of it, I don’t know if I ever knew. We always just called him PX.”

  “Was there anyone else in particular?”

  “After Billy Joe, she developed a real soft spot for Brad, but after what happened to Matthew, she didn’t want anything serious.”

  “What about this Brad? What did he want?”

  “He was a nice lad. No doubt about it, he was head over heels.”

  “Do you remember his second name?”

  “Sorry, love.”

  “That’s all right,” said Annie. “How long did they go out together?”

  “There you’ve got me. The best part of 1944, I think. At least they were still seeing each other when I left at Christmas.”

  “Christmas 1944?”

  “Yes.” She beamed. “Best Christmas of my life. My Eric got wounded in the Battle of the Bulge, silly bugger. Nothing serious, but it got him an early discharge and he was home for Christmas. The doctor recommended a bit of sea air, so we came here, fell in love with the place and ended up staying. We left Hobb’s End on Boxing Day 1944.”

  “Where’s Eric now?”

  “Oh, he’s out and about. Likes to go for his constitutional along the prom every morning, then he stops by the pub and plays dominoes with his mates.”

  “Did Gloria ever mention anything about having a baby?”

  Alice looked puzzled. “No, not to me. And I never saw any evidence of children. I’m not even sure she liked them. Wait a minute, though . . . ”

  “What?”

  “It was something I noticed when I was crossing the fairy bridge once. Something odd. A bloke turned up—a bloke in a soldier’s uniform—with a little lad in tow, couldn’t have been more than about six or seven, holding his hand. I’d never seen them before. They went in to see Gloria, talked for a while, then they left. I heard voices raised.”

  “When was this?”

  “Sorry, love, I can’t remember. It was after Matthew had gone, though. I do know that.”

  “And that’s all that happened?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you hear what was said?”

  “No.”

  “Who was he, do you know?”

  “Sorry, dearie, I’ve no idea.”

  “Did you ever ask Gloria about him?”

  “Yes. She went all quiet on me. She did that sometimes.

  All she would say was that it was relations from down south. I thought maybe it was her brother and nephew or something. You don’t think . . . ?”

  “I don’t know,” said Annie. “Did they ever come back, the man and the child?”

  “Not that I ever heard of.”

  “And what happened to Gwen and Gloria after you’d left?”

  “I don’t know. I sent Gloria a postcard, must have been March or April of 1945, telling her that Eric was better now and we were going to stay in Scarborough, and that she should come and visit us.”

  “What happened?”

  “Nothing. She never replied.”

  “Didn’t you think that odd?”

  “Yes, I did, but there wasn’t much I could do about it. Life goes on. I wrote again a few months later and still got no reply. After that, I gave up. You lose touch with a lot of people over the course of your life, I’ve found. It was the same with Gwen. I wouldn’t say we were really close—she was a bit too quiet and bookish for that—but we did have some good times together. After we moved here, though, I never saw or heard of her again.”

  “Did you ever go back to Hobb’s End?”

  “No reason to. After the war, it was like a new life— except for the same old rationing. You just got on with it and tried not to dwell on the past. I’m sorry I never saw Gloria again—she was a breath of fresh air—but, as I said, when you get to my age you realize people lose touch all the time.”

  Annie had found that true enough, even in her own short life. Schoolfriends, university colleagues, lovers, work partners, there were so many people she had completely lost touch with. They could be dead for all she knew. Like Rob.

  She let the silence stretch for a few moments, then shifted in her armchair. “Well, Alice,” she said, “I think that’s all for now. I’ll make sure I get the photograph back to you within a couple of days. If I think of anything else, I’ll get in touch with you.” She managed to get herself out of the deep, comfortable chair by pushing her hands down hard on the arms.

  “Please do.” Alice got to her feet. “It’s been a great pleasure to me, though I can’t see as it’s done you much good, me rabbiting on like this about the past.”

  “You’ve been very helpful.”

  “Well, it’s nice of you to say so, dearie. I must admit, I’ve enjoyed having a good chin-wag. It’s been years since I thought about all that stuff. Hobb’s End. Gloria. Gwen. Matthew. The war. I hope you find out who did this to her. Even if he’s dead, I’d like to know he died as slow and painful a death as he deserved.”

  We left the café saddened and dazed, with hours to kill before our train home. To tell the truth, I don’t think either of us at that time had much hope that Matthew was still alive. I asked Gloria if she would take me to where she used to live, but she refused. That would have been simply too much for her to bear, she said, and I felt cruel for asking.

  It stopped raining and the sun was trying to pierce its way through the ragged clouds. We walked through St James’s Park, past the barrageballoon station and the anti-aircraft guns, towards Oxford Street. Though our hearts weren’t in it, we did some shopping. At least it took our minds off Matthew for a short while. On Charing Cross Road, I bought Graham Greene’s new “entertainment,” The Ministry of Fear, as well as the last two issues of Penguin New Writing, the latest Horizon and some second-hand World’s Classics copies of Trollope and Dickens for the lending library.

  Gloria bought a black-red-and-white-checked Dorville dress at John Lewis. It cost her three pounds fifteen shillings and eleven coupons. She persuaded me to buy a Utility design by Norman Hartnell in a shop nearby for only three pounds and nine coupons.

  After fish and chips at a British Restaurant, we went to the Carlton on Haymarket to see Gary Cooper and Ingrid Bergman in For Whom the Bell Tolls. It was one of the first films I ever saw in Technicolor, colour films not having made a real impact in Harkside by then. I hadn’t read the Hemingway novel so I couldn’t judge how faithful the film version was.


  It was getting dark when we walked out onto Haymarket, and Gloria suggested we catch the underground back to King’s Cross.

  It is hard to describe the London blackout, especially on a broad, busy street like Haymarket. As it is never fully silent anywhere, so it is never fully dark, either. You can see the sharp edges and cornices of the buildings etched against the night sky in varying shades of darkness. If the half-moon slips out from behind the clouds, everything shimmers in its pale light for a few moments and then disappears again.

  What I noticed most of all was the noise, the way blind people develop a more acute sense of hearing. Distant shouts and whistles, engines, laughter and singing from a public house, perhaps a dog howling in the distance or a cat meowing down a ginnel— all these sounds seem to carry farther and echo longer in the darkness of the blackout. They all sound more sinister, too.

  Unnatural is the word that comes to mind. But what could be more natural than darkness? Perhaps it is a matter of context. In the city, especially such a sprawling, busy city as London, darkness is unnatural.

  In Piccadilly Circus, I could just make out the statue of Eros buttressed by sandbags. There was music coming from somewhere, too, a tune I later learned was Glenn Miller’s “Take the A Train.” There were soldiers all over the place, many of them drunk, and on more than one occasion, men approached us and grabbed us or offered us money for sexual favours.

  At one point, I heard some sounds down an alley and could just make out the silhouettes of a man grunting as he thrust himself towards a woman, her back against a wall. It made me think of that icy Christmas of 1941, when I had seen Gloria and the Canadian airman, Mark, in exactly the same position.