by Lizzie Page
No, I wouldn’t want that. I would miss you all too much. What about Father? she asked (for the first time).
So, when the exhibition finished – and it lasted two months – she got on the first boat home.
* * *
I went to meet her in London. I think her letters must have given me a false sense of her well-being, for when we met, I found her distracted and agitated again. I couldn’t help thinking it was as though she was back to square one, like those first few months after the war. At the risk of sounding like Aunt Cecily, I told her she looked too thin. I didn’t tell her that her clothes were awful too.
We had afternoon tea near Father’s office. She wanted to surprise him with me. ‘But he is expecting me,’ I explained, and she said, ‘Yes, but the two of us together, that will be a surprise.’
If Father was surprised, he hid it very well. He was delighted though.
* * *
Olive had only been in the country for three days, but she had already been to Warrington Crescent. She wanted to find out more about what had happened the night of the bombing in March 1918.
‘What is there to find out?’ I asked nervously.
Olive scowled at me. ‘Well, Mrs Ford was working on some new songs—’
‘Was she?’
‘Yes, and some of them were saved!’ she boasted proudly. ‘“We Are Coming, Mother England”, “When God Gave You to Me” and “God Guard You”.’
‘Are they any good?’ I asked.
She frowned. ‘Yes, of course they’re good. Mrs Ford was a wonderful lyricist, one of our greatest.’
‘All right, O.’ I found these conversations surprisingly wearing. She would get so intense. We were talking about things that happened over four years ago now.
I wanted to hear about her trip to South Africa, not about the Fords, and I decided to tell her so. Olive grunted at me but, later, began recounting the wonder of it all: it was clear to me she was proud at how much travelling she had managed to fit in. She had been privileged to see elephants, giraffes and a strange creature called a wildebeest and did I know how fast a cheetah could run? And the shocking thing was, just one week before she had arrived, someone had been torn limb from limb by a lion.
‘You would love it!’ she declared. I was still reeling from her stories when she leaned forwards over the scones and whispered that she was still unable to paint anything original at all and she was feeling quite, quite desperate about that.
I paused. I felt very much that I didn’t want to say the wrong thing and I couldn’t help feeling anything I did say would be wrong.
I asked if it was like the writer’s block I had heard about, and she hummed and hawed before saying, ‘Yes, maybe, it is something like that.’
She asked about the time we had been under fire and we had stayed put. ‘Frank Bellingham,’ she said. ‘That was his name. I wonder if he made it? Then we sang “Keep the Home Fires Burning”,’ she said breathlessly. ‘Didn’t we?’
‘Yes, Olive,’ I said. Her eyes were full of tears.
‘And… And, Vi? Do you remember the first night, the last mission?’ I knew which one she was talking about before she said it. ‘Vivi, am I imagining this? But the soldier – his face came off in my hands?’
I didn’t know whether to lie or not. Eventually, I nodded and said, ‘You shouldn’t go over it so much in your mind though, you know that.’
‘I can’t stop seeing it.’ She rubbed her eyes. ‘It’s always there.’
45
1942 – Now
This year, the school play is Charles Dickens’ Oliver Twist. Really? I think to myself. This sounds too grown-up for Pearl, who still recites ‘Goodnight Children, Everywhere’ with me and Vera Lynn at bedtime. But then I think everything sounds too grown-up for Pearl – maybe it’s just me.
Trotting home, she chats excitedly about it. It will be performed in the village hall; the children are going to have to look really mucky.
I think that won’t present a problem for Pearl. She’s got scabs on her knees, scabs on her elbows and mud streaks on her chin.
‘Do you want a part?’
I think of the brave little girl scrunched over her suitcase in the village hall three years ago. Who’d have thought it?
She beams at me. ‘YES! I want to be Oliver Twist.’
Of course she does.
I start to caution her. ‘They might—’
‘—Want a boy, I know. In that case, I’ll be Nancy.’
Nancy? If I remember rightly, things didn’t go too well for her. ‘Which teacher is in charge of it?’
‘Mrs Bankhead,’ replies Pearl.
‘Right.’
I have a bad feeling about this.
We have parsnip soup – it’s two days old but then, compensation for such a poor supper, we share a bar of chocolate that Mrs Dean was sent from America. She has cousins who live there, generous cousins, and when their parcels make it across the Atlantic, the whole street is rewarded. Pearl practises for her audition while I slip next door to help Mrs Burton see to two dogs: Toby, which makes me think of Uncle Toby, of course, and Rex. We get a satisfying amount of fur out of them. I ask Mrs Burton if she knows Oliver Twist. She doesn’t, so I explain it to her: ‘Poor Oliver is sent to live at an orphanage but flung out when he asks for more food. Found by the street gang, led by—’ I suddenly realise where I might be going with this, ‘…an old Jewish fellow, Fagin. He’s not very nice.’ I pause. ‘In fact, he’s the worst villain imaginable.’
‘Who do you think they’ll get Pearl to play?’
‘Goodness knows,’ I lie. I bet I know what Mrs Bankhead has got in mind.
* * *
Edmund says why would he want to go and see a school play in the village hall? It gets so draughty in there. He won’t accompany me, so I get a ticket for Mrs Burton instead.
A few days later, it’s decided. Pearl swings while I hold her bags. She leans backward. Bliss! She loves the freedom of Friday afternoons. The clouds move above us slowly.
They chose an older boy for Oliver. A petite, softly spoken boy, nephew of the milkman. This might be a good fit, I think.
‘And Nancy?’
‘Mrs Bankhead’s daughter.’
I didn’t know she had a daughter.
But Pearl is smiling anyway. ‘I’ve got a good role, Aunty Vi, a big speaking part. I’m going to be Fagin!’
‘I… Really?’
‘Yes!’
‘And you don’t mind?’
‘NO!’
‘Then that’s excellent, Pearl! I can’t wait.’
What would Olive do? I think of how she stormed out of the Lowes’ at injustices and slights. She loathed any kind of intolerance or bigotry – but was this intolerance, was this bigotry? I’m not sure. And isn’t it a small thing anyway, a buttercup of a thing? Wouldn’t I be an awful fusspot to take it to the school? And anyway, Pearl is so, so excited. It would surely be strange to intervene…
I leave it.
* * *
But a few days later, I go past the village hall when the lower school are rehearsing, and I see what Pearl is performing and it is so riddled with ugly stereotypes, with racist propaganda, I almost feel dirty just watching it.
‘Mrs Bankhead!’ I call – it’s now or never – and she turns, unenthusiastically.
‘Mrs Lowe.’
I can see it in her face: over-involved host mother.
‘You have a class full of children and you chose Pearl Posner to be the… the Fagin. Is that a coincidence?’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
Thinking of Sam – Things are very difficult for the Jewish people. When times are hard, those who are different are often blamed or scapegoated. We seem always to be at hand for that – I plant my feet.
* * *
The debate does me no good. Mrs Bankhead is, of course, unfazed by anything I say and I can’t find the right words anyway. I feel Pearl being singled out to play Fagin is
wrong, but I can’t quite formulate why. For the next few days, I have a squirmy, shameful feeling in my stomach. Confrontation is not my strong point. However, the next Friday, Pearl comes bounding out of school, satchel swinging: ‘I’m the Artful Dodger now, and I like him best!’
‘What happened to Fagin?’
‘Mrs Bankhead decided Keith and Bill will take it in turns.’
I hug her, tell her I can’t wait for the show. What an amazing turn of events!
She begs to go to Mrs Dean’s to call her mum with the good news. I agree, and rummage for the sixpence.
That night on the wireless, we learn that Singapore has fallen. Another country down. The dark tide seems relentless. The whole world must be wondering: will the war never end? It can’t go on for much longer, can it?
But at least I have Pearl Posner, the Artful Dodger. They can’t take her away from me.
46
1923 – Then
Olive and I sat on the back steps of Father’s house. She smoked her pipe and I smoked my stress-relieving cigarettes. It was March and already I was visiting for my third time that year. I visited Portchester Terrace a lot. Edmund said I visited too much, but he never seemed bothered about me when I was at home in Hinckley so I figured it made little difference. By this time, he had already moved himself into the other bedroom. He said it was because I snored in my sleep. I was hurt by this and had resolved to ask Olive if it was true, but I could never quite bring myself to do it: whatever she said would have been hurtful.
I was pulled between here and there. My father’s business was undergoing a post-war renaissance. The Middle Eastern routes had reopened. In the living room were two Turkish men with fine fabric strips and logbooks. Father said the quality was better and better all the time. He was sending rugs all over the country. I was glad he was doing well, yet it seemed part-rebuke that I was not there to help more.
‘They’ve asked me to go back, Vivi.’
‘Go back? Go back where?’
A squirrel darted across the lawn.
‘To the Front.’
I turned to face Olive. She was staring into her hands.
‘The Front? Why? Who’s asked you to do this?’
‘They want some artists to go and do some drawings. It’s not just me.’ She laughed at the thought. ‘They’re inviting a few of us, some who were there, some who weren’t.’
‘And… and…’ I didn’t know what to ask. I couldn’t think of her going back. I thought she had put all that aside, finally. ‘Do you want to go?’
‘I don’t know. I think maybe if I can go, I might be able to…’ Her voice dropped so I could hardly hear her. ‘Draw a line under it all.’
47
1943 – Now
It’s spring and I’ve got dogs between my knees, I’ve got dogs coming out of my ears: Rex and Mossy, Joey and Bella.
Mrs Burton is in her kitchen, combing out Baxter; while his owner says he is not vicious and won’t hurt the other dogs, after much chaos we’ve decided to keep them all separate. Just in case. Baxter is what we euphemistically call ‘frisky’. So, I’ve got all the others, and we had arranged to have lots in this morning. Edmund will go mad if he sees all the dogs running loopy in our garden, but something ugly has grown in me recently that almost wants to see Edmund lose his temper.
A car horn sets off the dogs and they howl like wolves at the moon; when one stops, another starts, louder. I shriek for Pearl to go out and see what’s happening. Five minutes later, she hasn’t returned. Irritated, I walk round to the front, to see her leaping into someone’s arms.
It’s Sam. Sam Isaac is here.
How on earth must I look?
Pearl is placed down carefully, like she’s a precious jewel. Sam comes forward, hand outstretched for me like we are old colleagues, business associates. He’s in a brown suit, a soft hat – not a fez or sombrero – and that same, warm, old smile.
‘Vivi,’ he says, ‘good to see you.’
My throat is too dry to speak. This man. My pilot is here.
‘And you,’ I manage. ‘Sam.’
Pearl tugs my arm. ‘Can I go out? Can I go out with Uncle Sam? Can I, please?’ Her face is alight with excitement.
‘Wha— I… do you want some tea first?’ I ask, both petrified and desperately hoping that he will say yes.
They do not.
Sam Isaac – Uncle Sam – must be nearly fifty-four now. (I remember the days when fifty-four seemed as ancient as Ozymandias.) His hair has changed colour – but it’s as though this is the colour it should have been all along. Silver leaves, snowy plains… yes, I am being ridiculous. His eyes, those gentle eyes; I can’t meet them.
Pearl runs inside the house to get her coat. I fuss over the dogs, trying to at least keep them from sniffing him. They are barking up a symphony.
‘Are these all yours, Vivi?’
‘No, no, no,’ I say. I’m flushed and so hot I’m afraid sweat might be visibly dripping off me. One of the dogs is rolling around in the cabbage patch, another has peed up the side of the shed. ‘None of them are. They are… just… for the war effort.’
Sam smiles kindly at me. ‘I don’t know what to say. You didn’t get my letter?’
‘No,’ I say flatly. If I had imagined our reunion a thousand times, it would never have been like this: me in an apron, my hair in a net, and with Laurel, the great lunk, hiding behind my legs.
‘I’m sorry. I’ll bring Pearl back tonight, if that’s all right, about six?’
Pearl bounds from the house. She really can’t wait. I hold the garden gate shut behind me so the dogs can’t escape.
We look at each other, and at the exact same time both say, ‘Pearl loves cars.’ We laugh.
‘Thank you,’ he says. He shakes my hand again.
* * *
Was this the longest day of my life? Sort out the dogs. Brush the dogs. Deal with frisky Baxter. Wait for them to be taken away. Baxter’s owner, naturally, comes last. Queue for two hours at the butchers. Get a pig’s head. Get turnips and cauliflower. Get beetroot. Pearl likes beetroot. Half-heartedly, jam some plums. Think about drying some apples – fail to dry apples not only because I lent Mrs Dean my sulphur candles but because I am not feeling in a drying-apples mood.
I ask Mrs Burton if she wouldn’t mind putting curlers in my hair (she has offered before, it is not entirely out of the blue). She doesn’t mind at all, and she doesn’t ask why and when Mr Burton comes home, and says, ‘Oh, Mr Lowe not on duty tonight then?’ she tells him, ‘Can’t a woman do her hair without the French inquisition?’
I wear a favourite dress, which suddenly seems decidedly drab but never mind. Austerity means trying to look at old things with new eyes. I spritz on the last perfume in the bottle.
Sam and I could sit by the swings. We could walk to the village hall. We could… talk. There is so much to say.
* * *
And then at five past six, Pearl skips in on her own. She plonks her straw basket on one kitchen chair, sits on the other. Tells me she doesn’t want tea. No, not even a beetroot sandwich, thank you. They haven’t stopped eating all day, she says.
‘You look nice,’ she says suddenly.
‘What… wait, where is your uncle then?’
‘Oh…’ We both look out of the window. The car isn’t there. ‘He didn’t want to bother you,’ she says, casually.
‘Oh.’ Disappointment floods through me. And here I am, sat with my gravy legs and nails like some… like some sad lady in a Tennyson poem.
I want to ask Pearl all the questions: What did you do? Is he married? Is he happy? He’s bought her a book: West with the Night by Beryl Markham. So, I think, he is good at books as well. She wants to sit in bed and get started on it.
‘Come with us next time?’
Has she been primed to say this? I look at her innocent face.
‘I don’t think so, Pearl.’
She makes to go upstairs.
‘Don’t you need y
our bag, love?’
‘Oh, wait,’ she says, ‘I got something for you.’ She carefully takes out a cardboard tube. ‘Uncle said he wanted you to have it.’
And here inside it is Olive’s picture. In an Ambulance. A VAD lighting a cigarette…
Olive didn’t send it to the Fords, she gave it to Sam. Of course she did. Of course.
48
1924 – Then
Olive was away for well over a year that time and although she was only across the Channel in Belgium, she didn’t come back to visit us, not once, even though presumably she could have. She wrote a lot though – to Father, to me, to Aunt Cecily; they read theirs aloud to me, and I read very selected bits from my letters aloud to them. The letters were very different: you would think they were written by a different person.
In her letters to them, Olive talked earnestly about her painting, her diet and how she was thrilled to be doing some good.
In her letters to me, she described the tin hut she lived in near the hundreds of Chinese labourers who had been part of the war effort and were now part of the cleaning-up effort. Chinese?! Edmund’s mother would have had a fit at that.
She wrote about the artists she was with, not just painters, but photographers and writers and poets. Some of them even created films, she said. She had always been drawn to the cinema. She talked about the toxic water – the water supply had been contaminated early in the war. Everything is toxic here, toxic, toxic, she wrote. The number of dead bodies they unearthed. Poor young men. People are flooding back to the area to rebuild, but it’s not safe for civilians… other than us.
She wrote that she was involved in a few incidents, had a spell of pneumonia and went to ‘a fabulous bar in Poperinghe – you would love it, don’t tell the others, I don’t want to worry Father,’ she warned. ‘But I am happy, Vivi, absolutely, happier than I’ve been in years. I really think I’ve recovered now…’
