by MARY HOCKING
She told her uncle what she had done, and he said he was proud of her. Overflowing with joy, she wrote to Alice, ‘I can’t describe to you how he looked at me! No one has ever looked at me like that before – as though I was some kind of miracle. Now, I often see him watching me with such wonder in his face. Perhaps he feels I am the daughter he never had. I can hardly believe I have been singled out to mean so much to him.’ She wrote of this wistfully, as though it was difficult to imagine herself singled out for special attention. Alice, when she read the letter, thought it was something which happened only too often to Claire. Claire concluded, ‘I shall always remember this holiday as one of the most important times in my life. Although I must say I don’t like Aunt Meg so much as I did – she is a bit on the brisk side.’
Her sacrifice was not as complete as she made out. For, as well as the stories, she had found two plaits of raven hair which she and Alice had made to adorn Rosalie, the eldest of the Maitland girls. Somehow, she had not been able to burn Rosalie’s hair, and had pushed it away to the bottom of the suitcase.
‘Daddy!’ Catherine shouted as she saw a soldier passing by in the street below.
‘You don’t remember Daddy,’ her brother said, clutching at one remnant of the superiority he saw daily slipping from him as his sister grew older.
‘I do! I do!’ She screamed at her mother, who was in the kitchen, ‘I do remember Daddy, don’t I, Mummy?’ She had had a long walk in the park in the afternoon and the screaming turned to tears; by the time her mother came into the room she was sobbing drearily, ‘Jameth thayth I don’t remember Daddy.’
‘You shouldn’t tease her,’ Louise said to James, not very severely. She picked up her daughter and carried her away to the bathroom. ‘One of us is tired.’
‘She called Mr Porritt Daddy this morning,’ James muttered angrily to himself. He heard his mother running the bath water. When she came into the room for one of Catherine’s toys, he said, ‘When am I going to have a brother?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Great-granny told me I was going to have a brother and then she
came.’
‘That was silly of Great-granny. I want these soldiers tidied up, please, James.’
‘They’re holding a bridge.’
‘Then you can take the bridge away as well.’
When she had put Catherine to bed she came back to find James still playing with the soldiers. Impatiently, she swept them up herself. His face went scarlet, more with hurt at her brusqueness than her action, which his sense of fairness told him was not unreasonable.
‘Mummy, I had them formed up – I was going to dismiss them!’
She tried to keep her patience as she squatted beside him. ‘Darling, I told you I wanted you to be quick tonight.’
‘It’s not my bedtime. I go to bed half an hour after her.’
‘It’s nearly that now. Aunt Irene is coming to look after you, and I want you both in bed by the time she arrives. Then perhaps she’ll read to you while I’m out.’
‘In here?’
‘If Catherine is asleep by then, yes. But she won’t be asleep if you don’t go to bed soon.’
He accepted this without grumbling; he was a reasonable little boy. Louise’s heart ached for him. He was the one who really missed his father; or perhaps that was no longer true – he missed a father to play with him. She looked at the photograph of Guy and felt a pang. Things were not going well in the desert, and here was she looking forward to an evening’s outing.
‘Don’t forget to say your prayers,’ she said to James. ‘Pray for Daddy. He loves us all so much.’
By the time Irene arrived, both children were in bed, Catherine fast asleep and James hopefully awake.
‘I am grateful,’ Louise said. ‘I’ve got a lodger, but he is out a lot, and anyway, I wouldn’t want to leave the children with him.
He’s a policeman – Sergeant Fletcher. I always feel he’s making an inventory of the room when he comes in here.’
‘You don’t mind if Angus joins me? He won’t even notice the furnishings, let alone make an inventory!’
‘Enjoy yourselves! Once you’ve done your duty by James, he’ll go to sleep. They won’t be any trouble, they both sleep like the dead. Proper little Fairleys.’
‘You’re lucky, Louise.’
‘Yes.’
Lucky! Louise thought. There is Irene, waiting for Angus, and here am I running along the street because I am so eager to meet Daphne Drummond! Anything, in fact, to get out of the way of my children for a few hours. She adored the children and she was a good mother. Some women would have been satisfied with that: to them having children was the mainspring of life. But it wasn’t! Now, as she hurried along the road her heart leapt at the sight of the plane trees in evening sunlight; and she looked eagerly towards the Uxbridge Road, anticipating the people and the traffic, as though she was heading for the first time for Fifth Avenue, or the Rue de Rivoli, instead of an ordinary thoroughfare along which she walked daily with her children. She had even put on her best navy linen dress in honour of the occasion. It was a little tight and she could feel it pulling beneath her arms; but this did not worry her because the dress had suited her very well when she bought it several years ago, and she had not given its appearance a thought since then. When she was younger she had been so lovely it had not been necessary to think about making the best of herself; and this had given her a confidence she would take through life with her. She would say, ‘I don’t need to wear a suspender belt . . .’ long after this had ceased to be true. Now, hurrying along the street, she looked so warmly grateful to life for being so good to her that most people – certainly most men – would be prepared to accept her as a beauty.
The restaurant was in a side-street off Notting Hill Gate. It had two tables on the pavement outside a Moorish-style bar. Louise could see Daphne Drummond sitting at one of the tables. She had never thought much about Daphne or Irene until recently. Younger sisters’ friends were not people one considered. Then, when they had met in one of the shops in Notting Hill, the children had been tugging at her, and Daphne had said, ‘We can’t talk now. But I would love to have news of Alice. Would it be possible for us to meet one evening?’ And here she was. And there was Daphne, waving from the far side of the road. Daphne was sharply in focus and had the effect of making the people around her seem blurred. Louise could not imagine why she had not noticed Daphne before.
Daphne had gin and lime and Louise a shandy. They talked about Alice. Louise was the older of the two by some four years, but in Daphne’s company she began to feel simple, as though there was some important but unspecified area of life in which she was not proficient. She could hardly blame Daphne for this, since she was doing most of the talking while Daphne listened more than politely. From time to time, however. Daphne would glance around her at the busy street, the people strolling by, and there was something in her cool gaze which suggested she was equal to anything. Why, Louise wondered, should this unmarried, and presumably inexperienced, young woman imagine she can upstage me in this way? Although she had had sexual intercourse before marriage, Louise regarded hers as an exceptional case and would not readily have countenanced such behaviour in another.
Daphne’s eye rested briefly on two Army officers who were walking slowly in the direction of the restaurant. They did not hold her attention for long. Perhaps they were piqued by this, or perhaps they had intended to stop in any case. They stood talking, their shadows falling across the table where Louise and Daphne were sitting. After a pantomime of indecision, they decided, disdainfully, that they could do worse than this place. Louise and Daphne, who had now lost interest in each other, found it necessary to converse with a vivacity which had previously been lacking in their exchanges. The two men, while appearing to study the menu, made their assessment and decided that the straightforward pick-up would not do in this case. Over their beer, the men talked about the fighting at El Alamein; while Louise and Daphne
talked about their friends – ‘What has happened to Jacov, do you know? He seems to have disappeared.’ Louise was aware, without turning her head, that one of the officers was lively, slight and dark, while the other was a big, craggy man. She said, ‘I met him in the park in May. He made the usual improper suggestions, and I haven’t seen him since.’
The craggy man said, ‘It was an attitude of mind that lost us Tobruk. If we are not careful we shall condition ourselves to defeat.’
His companion said easily, ‘Oh, the English always lose every battle but the last.’
‘No, it only seems so because that is the way we write our history.’
Conversation died down. All four looked into the darkening blue of the evening; the cooler air gave impetus to flagging spirits. It would be a waste if things went no further. The dark soldier turned suddenly to Daphne. In the diminished light his face was shadowed, but the eyes, in contrast, seemed brighter. ‘Would you think it impertinent if I spoke to you?’
‘I suppose that would depend on what you said.’ She was still as an ivory figurine: a receptive stillness, though – he would not feel repulsed.
‘I’m sure we must have acquaintances in common.’
‘Whatever makes you think that?’ She smiled; she had a wide mouth and the smile transformed her face. The suspicion of coquetry was swept aside. Her glance was frank enough to startle Louise.
‘I have this feeling that we have so much to talk about.’ There was a slight lilt to his voice – Welsh, perhaps, but not obviously so. ‘ “Of shoes – and ships – and sealing wax – of cabbages – and kings . . .” ’
Louise said to the big man, ‘Does he go on like this all the time?’
It was a friendly enquiry, she was a friendly person. But she could see that she had lost favour in his eyes by jumping a move ahead; she should have waited for him to speak. A pity, because she thought he was the more interesting of the two men. His blue eyes had a far-away look, the look which had once attracted her to Guy. But the face was different; this was a man capable of realizing his dreams. The impression created – though goodness alone knew why this should be so, since the dreams might be mundane enough – a suggestion of impending danger. Louise saw danger (as she saw all excitement) in sexual terms.
‘We are thinking of dining here,’ the dark man was saying to Daphne. ‘Would you take pity on us?’
His companion allowed him to undertake negotiations which he obviously found distasteful, although he appeared to have an interest in the outcome. His eyes watched Daphne with more than casual curiosity. Louise shrugged him aside. There’s something to be said for the one who can ask for what he wants, she thought.
The dark soldier made the introductions. He was Ivor Ritchie and his companion was Peter Kelleher. Louise and Daphne responded. Louise saw Ivor look at her wedding ring and back to her face.
They went into the restaurant. A group of RAF personnel had pushed tables together in the middle of the room. There was an air of celebration about their party. Louise remembered afterwards the radiant face of a girl who normally was probably rather plain.
Ivor said, ‘Oh dear, they’ll start singing soon – “You can’t get to Heaven in an old string bag” – or is that the Fleet Air Arm?’ He steered his party to a table by the window. Peter Kelleher had not yet spoken. But he could not be accused of indifference. Shock waves rippled between him and Daphne Drummond. Until then, Louise had believed that love at first sight only happens in one’s teens. Peter Kelleher was quite old, thirty at least. He looked at Daphne with the bewilderment of an explorer who finds, on a search for a group of islands, that his compass has pointed him to a whole new continent. Daphne was quiet – one might almost have said modest, had she not been so electrically female. If she had subsequently told Louise that words were never exchanged between them during their entire courtship, Louise would have believed her. Certainly, at this moment, the current was strong enough to make words irrelevant.
An RAF sergeant was proposing a toast: undoubtedly an engagement party. At their table, Louise and Ivor did most of the talking. Companionship developed between them because they recognized, and were amused by, the agitation of the other two. Ivor had a quick sense of humour and Louise, who believed in adapting herself to the reality of her circumstances, began to like him more than his silent companion. He was sensitive to what happened around him, no nuance of behaviour eluded him, no facial reflex escaped his notice; but whereas this sensitivity might in another person have produced a morbid anxiety, with him it seemed to provide food for a constant inner mirth.
The air raid siren sounded. The proprietor said, ‘This never happens now,’ as if it was an affront to his establishment.
Ivor’s eyes darted from one person to another with the glee of a child at his first encounter with the clowns. He appeared to believe that others must share his merriment, for he looked them full in the face, inviting laughter. Louise did not think this was the laughter of the person who must forever disguise a state of nerves; he seemed very far from nervous. Perhaps he simply found life a farce? Only on one subject was he briefly serious. To her delight, she discovered that he, too, enjoyed music. His manner changed when he talked about Bach, a subject on which he evinced genuine passion. ‘You listen with your heart,’ he accused her.
‘What else would I listen with?’
‘Your ears, woman!’
The throb of approaching planes could be heard now. One of the RAF men said, affecting Welsh, ‘On the way back from Cardiff, man.’
Louise was thinking of music. She had an unmusicianly theory that those who sing flat are the people who are afraid of getting things wrong, so instead of striking out boldly for the golden note, they reach up to it gingerly; whereas those who sing sharp are the intrepid spirits, who soar to meet the challenges of life, who launch themselves into the great void of the air careless of consequences. She was sure Ivor sang sharp, as did she.
He was talking about a series of lunchtime concerts which would be held in London soon. She was pleased that he was not above using music as a means to an end.
‘You’ll probably be posted by then,’ she said.
He shook his head. His work, about which he had not spoken, seemed to offer a degree of permanence; he was confident that he could plan ahead.
Louise said, ‘We’ll see.’
The guns at Wormwood Scrubs opened up. It was never a reassuring sound. In the blitz, people had maintained that the guns made the planes jettison their bomb loads. The RAF were singing now,
‘And on her leg
‘She wore a purple garter
‘She wore it in the springtime
‘And in the month of May.’
Suddenly, Louise felt faint. ‘I’m not liking this,’ she thought. ‘It’s because of Daddy. If it goes on much longer, I shall have to get out of here.’
The planes passed. They were indeed on their way home. Ivor said, ‘Do you want more of this?’ He stirred the dregs in his cup. ‘What do you suppose it’s made of?’
Daphne said, ‘Acorns?’
They heard the drone of a solitary plane. Ivor said, ‘A straggler. Probably winged.’ He grinned, triumphant at having got the remark in first. The men at the RAF table raised their glasses to him. The guns started up again. Someone said, ‘Oh, let the bugger go!’
One of the RAF men had his arm round the girl and she was gazing up at him. Louise thought, ‘I know just how she feels!’ Then she saw the girl’s eyes dilate with horror.
The ceiling came apart, making way for sky and a tilting chimney.
Louise was on her back with Ivor on top of her. He seemed to weigh several tons and one of his buttons was engraving itself on her chest. She could move her head, but nothing else. She moved her head and saw Daphne’s face, quite near, dead white with a trickle of blood running down from the temple. She said, ‘Daphne’s dead.’
‘No, I don’t think so.’ Ivor sounded calm, his face close to hers.
�
�I can’t move! Oh God, I can’t move!’
‘Neither can I, but it’s all right. There’s nothing more to come down. They’ll get us out soon.’
The greater part of the building was heaped near by, where the RAF group had been sitting. But above, through a haze of dust, Louise could see a jagged promontory of brick from which grit dribbled continuously. If one or two bricks were to be dislodged, a cascade of masonry would smash straight down on her face. She would be helpless, unable to move. The air was thick with dust and grit. She began to cough. Panic made the cough worse. ‘I’m going to die,’ she thought. ‘Oh God, if they don’t get me out of here quickly, I’m going to die! The children . . .’
Out of the darkness, she heard Peter Kelleher’s voice, curtly commanding, ‘Hold your breath!’
For the children’s sake, she clenched her teeth and held her breath. The coughing eased, but her throat was raw and she was terrified it would become bad again.
