Between the Regions of Kindness

by Alice Jolly

  And she’s an artist glass-blower?

  No. No. She’s dead.

  Oh. I see. Sorry. I’m very tactless – always have been. One of my few talents.

  No need to worry. It’s quite all right.

  He says this calmly but he feels his bones grating inside him, presses his teeth together in case he should give her an idiot grin. He has seldom needed to actually say that word – dead – and so now it’s as though he’s hearing it for the first time. After she’s gone, Oliver stands still in the middle of the room, measures the space that she occupied, feels the tension she has left in the air. He’s light-headed, tired, strangely elated. He aches for Grace now, for any woman, for human flesh, for comfort.

  That first day comes back to him – a day far back in childhood, the garden in Falmouth, the frost still thickening the mossy grass, the tall, crooked fences, made of black, half-rotten wood. The flattened flower beds and the row of straggling Scots pines whose intricate shadows shiver on the grass. The children playing, their breath rising in white clouds around them. And Grace sitting on the garden bench, with her legs swinging, wearing a lilac-coloured beret and a matching scarf. Her eyes are widely spaced and a cool shade of green. Her face mysterious as the moon and full of questions.

  He lifts one of the vases down and runs his finger up the side of it. The glass is infinitely solid and dense. As he moves his finger, it sticks just a little to a tiny, unseen flaw. He moves his finger, runs it along the vase’s lip, a sensual curve. He hears her voice, her adult voice. You and your arrogance. How can you believe that? It isn’t anything to do with you. He often hears this voice, taunting him.

  But now he answers – Yes, but it’s happening again. It does happen. Perhaps not on the hard shoulder of the motorway with the blood draining away but it happens, in small ways, it happens. A wave of electric energy surges through him. He’s back into the flow of this again. A feeling he hasn’t had in years. A warm tingling, a firing-up of engines somewhere deep inside, a desire to touch, to hold, to laugh. If only it could last, if only he could be sure.

  14

  BEFORE

  Rose – Coventry, September 1939

  The house in Warwick Road smells of restless waiting and illness now. The maid has told Rose that Violet is upstairs with Mr Whiteley and that she’s to wait in the hall. In the past, Rose would have gone up to Violet but now she doesn’t dare. Instead she sits on the red tasselled chair by the hall table and folds her hands in her lap, pressing down against her knees as though to ensure that her body, at least, stays in its proper place. Frank is alive on her skin – the slight burn on her chin where his stubble scratched her, the touch of his tongue against hers, the dampness between her legs and the tenderness of her breasts.

  Too many things are happening too fast. The earth is unstable, the air itself is rattled and shaken. What will she say to Violet? She’s sure Frank is wrong. Violet wouldn’t have got him sacked, even though she does have cause to feel aggrieved. The lines of the black and white floor tiles march steadily from the front door to the foot of the stairs. In the evening shadows, those treacherous Chinese vases stand guard at the sitting room door and the china shepherds and shepherdesses still frolic in their glass case. It’s houses like this – and the people who own them – who have caused the war, Rose knows that, but she can’t help but love this house. Except that now those who are not for are against. Rose looks at her watch. She’s agreed to meet Frank at seven thirty at the Peace Pledge office.

  From above a door clicks open, a rustle of fabric, the click of shoe on a polished board, and Violet appears at the top of the stairs. Mr Whiteley’s illness has tarnished her pale perfection but still her silk dress is ironed and her hair is neatly rolled, her lipstick bright. She wears a string of beads and swings the end of them in her hand as she sweeps down the green-carpeted stairs, her orchid hand coming to rest on the mahogany snail curl at the end of the balcony. Rose, my darling. I’m so glad you’re here. You’ll never guess what. I’ve got news. Big news.

  What? Let me guess.

  No, I want to tell you. Stanley asked me – and I said yes. Violet gives an awkward bow, sweeping her hand down and then up, waving it high in a circle above her head. So we’re engaged.

  Oh, that’s super news. Absolutely fantastic.

  Rose isn’t surprised. It was only two months ago that Frank finally managed to ease himself away from Violet but it was always unlikely that Violet would play the role of jilted woman for long. Rose feels an intense gratitude to brisk and portly Stanley with his stubbly little moustache. He has erased Violet’s disappointment, her own guilt.

  Congratulations. Rose catches hold of Violet and hugs her, feeling the soft wool of her pale pink scarf and the touch of powder on her cheek.

  Last weekend we went away to the Foremans together – you know, to Backley Grange because, of course, Stanley was at school with George Cunningham. Stanley says you can come with us any time. Of course, we’re going to marry as soon as we can. So that if – when – Stanley has to go away. Hopefully father might be well enough to come. You will be bridesmaid?

  Yes, of course.

  I must show you. Look. Violet opens a cupboard under the stairs, pulls out a fur coat on a hanger and holds it up against her. Then she reaches into the cupboard and pulls out a suitcase as well. Holding the suitcase beside her, she models the coat and case, flouncing her curls and making a pouting, film-star face. Rose touches the coat. It’s so soft that it hardly seems to exist at all.

  Look. Violet opens the suitcase, which has tiny jewels fixed into the catches. Inside the lid, the oyster satin is gathered up to make a separate compartment and above it a tiny mirror is held in place by an extra layer of satin. Initials have been engraved into the leather. V.M.B. Violet Mary Bunton.

  Super, Rose says. Beautiful.

  Violet twirls around again, holding the coat against her but then starts to put both back in the cupboard. I’ll have to go back up in a minute. Father is having a bad day. But let’s have a cup of tea – and maybe a sandwich. Is it seven already?

  Violet goes to the kitchen door, calls for tea, leads Rose into the drawing room. There she sinks into a chair, eases off her shoes, wriggles her toes, lights a cigarette. Through the French windows, amidst the gathering shadows, Rose can see where the garden has been dug up to accommodate the Anderson shelter. The Moorish arch with its pineapple knob has disappeared – probably they took that when they pulled up the railings outside. The remains of the wisteria, broken and hacked, is piled in a flower bed.

  Violet draws on the cigarette, tipping her head back. I knew straight away, of course. Even that first day when Stanley came to lunch – you remember, back in March – seems like another world, doesn’t it? We won’t be able to have much of a honeymoon, of course – but we might go to the Lake District or Pembrokeshire. And Stanley is going to come here, at least to start with, so that I can look after father. I’m just so happy. I couldn’t have wanted anyone better than Stanley. He’s been so good over the last two months. Such a support with father so ill.

  Rose looks out again at the wreck of the garden and now, suddenly, the scarred earth and the lumpy roof of the shelter seem unbearably sad. That strange hysteria which has inhabited the city all through the long summer months has ceased now and often a strange stillness descends. Everything is braced, ready. Surely something will happen now – but nothing does. Although fines are issued to anyone not carrying a gas mask, and on the outskirts of the cities the factories crank and grind all night, their lights dazzling, their smell of oil heavy in the air. And the men emerge white-faced into the dawn, bicycling home, only to go back again at lunchtime.

  And how are you? Violet asks.

  Fine. Well, bitterly disappointed, of course. I did know it would come, but all the same. People have worked so hard. I just can’t believe it – and I’m frightened, and well – not exactly excited, but—

  Yes, I am too. Dreadful, isn’t it? I’ll be all ri
ght until Stanley goes.

  All the alarms sounded at the factory the other day – this wailing, screaming noise, and everyone thought the Germans were rattling at the gates, ready to shoot us or kick us to the ground. But no one really says anything. Apparently they’re going to evacuate all the children.

  No. Surely not. Why would they do that?

  The maid brings the tea, her eyes red and her hands shaking as she pours. As she puts the teapot down on the tray, it smashes against the milk jug and both Rose and Violet move to right it. The maid snuffles and disappears.

  Really, Violet says. As though she’s the only person whose husband is going away.

  Rose knows that she needs to ask Violet about Frank soon. To her, it doesn’t really matter why Frank has been sacked but Frank himself is furious, absolutely furious. Rose saw him two nights ago. He stayed at the boarding house – climbing up a trellis and across a roof – because both of her roommates were away. Rose had been looking forward to that night – so much better to be in a bed rather than the cellar at the Peace Pledge office or sharing a blanket in Binley Woods.

  She remembers now lying in bed, watching him dress. At the open window the grey light was lifting, revealing the familiar outline of roofs and chimneys, the branch of a stunted apple tree. In the half-light, Frank pulled his braces up over his shoulders, lifted his foot onto the wooden end of the bed to tie his shoelace – his movements musical, sliding like dance. Allegro, piano, fortissimo. Rose doesn’t know the meaning of any of these words but they describe Frank as he moves. When he’d done his shoes he came to kneel beside her, twisted her hair, bit at her lip.

  But then he spoilt it all by ranting yet again about Violet. She was responsible, he was sure of that. She’d been in to see her father’s friend, Mr Cardew, and persuaded him. But why, Rose asked herself, had Frank not seen this coming? He’s a conchie, he’s jilted the daughter of a powerful man and there are rumours, endless rumours. But no – Frank did not see it coming because he stubbornly believes in decency, fairness and the triumph of love. Rose had found herself caught between irritation and tenderness.

  I suppose you’ve heard? Rose says. That Frank has lost his job?

  Yes. I did hear.

  Rose can never be sure what exactly Violet knows. She’s too proud, too discreet for confrontation and Rose admires that.

  Of course, as you know, I was never really interested in Frank, Violet says. We’ve always been friends but it was never going to be anything more than that.

  No. Absolutely. He was never right for you.

  I never really thought of it. I know other people did. Just because we look rather similar people seemed to like the idea. And then Aunt Muriel with her hat. And, of course, I am fond of Frank because he’s my cousin. But now I’m concerned about him. Very. I’ve been talking to Stanley and he thinks Frank is having a mental crisis. It’s to do with chemicals in the brain. Stanley has read all about it. Or it could be a depression. Apparently, a depression is sometimes a refusal to participate in society – and that would certainly fit with the way that Frank is behaving, wouldn’t you say?

  Rose wants to ask, Are there not some so-called societies that we should refuse to participate in? But she keeps silent, feels herself playing out the rope, seeing how far Violet will go. And she thinks of Frank – his drink-crazed eyes and his anger. She’d never thought that he’d refuse to sign up. Others had but they were Quakers, committed to conscientious objection from the womb. Many of the young men in the Peace Pledge office had signed up finally and there were no hard feelings about it. Everyone understood. But Frank had been one of the few who absolutely refused and has kept on campaigning, working late into the night, writing up the minutes of meetings, sticking up posters, handing out leaflets.

  At the Tribunal the judge had said that Frank was lucky to be registered as a conscientious objector when he has no religious background and described him as a fit and able young man who could easily serve his country had he not been infected by the poison of communism. And then, of course, his name had been published in the papers, and at the factory Ivy, Beryl and Win had said to Rose – Surprised you’re still talking to him. Bloody traitor. In the bar at the Socialist Workers’ Club a man hit him over the head with an empty bottle of beer. Then the police had arrested him for causing a Public Nuisance and he’d been released the next day with his eye black and swollen. At the factory it was suggested to him – politely – that he would no longer be required for the tennis team. The man who crossed the floor. But he has borne it all – the jibes and the bitterness and his mother’s tears. Now what will happen to him? He’s a fool, Frank, but truthful and right. Does no one have any respect for that?

  Although really – why should I care? Violet says, pouring a second cup of tea. Frank is an adult and can do what he wants. But I’m worried for you, Rose. Very worried. Because I know what a pest Frank can be and I don’t want your reputation ruined. If Frank wants to go to the dogs then he’s welcome but you really mustn’t let him take you with him.

  So you got him sacked?

  Violet flushes crimson, licks her lips.

  Rose, you must understand – at the factory they’ve got to be very careful. They have already been incredibly tolerant towards Frank. Most companies would have sacked him the day he refused to sign up. And it was only the influence that your Mr Bostock has with the Tribunal which meant that he kept his job and only had to move to a different department. Well, I don’t know. But now everything is different. They can’t afford to have someone with those kinds of political views and it isn’t only politics. I talked to father once about this and he understands. It’s also – well, you know I told you about Frank and his – instincts.

  So you got him sacked?

  Oh Rose, for goodness’ sake. Do let’s be civilised.

  You did? Didn’t you?

  Rose, really. I did it for you, dear. Because I care for you. I felt I had to and I don’t know why you mind. He was going to lose his job anyway. And it’s not as though you would be silly enough even to think about it – and neither would Frank. And anyway, now that he doesn’t have a job, he certainly can’t marry. And he’ll have to go back to the Tribunal and I doubt they’ll be so lenient again. And so he’ll find himself sent away to do some filthy agricultural job or even sent to prison and perhaps at the end of all that he’ll see sense.

  Rose feels her jaw tighten, her throat contract. Blood is burning under her skin. But there’s no point in saying anything. Violet holds all the power, has always held all the power, and she can dispose of them all as she wants. The hypocrisy of this is dazzling. How is it possible to live in a world where weakness and strength are so dangerously confused? Rose puts her teacup down. She’s trying not to be like Frank – not to be angry or surprised – because she’s only discovered what she always knew. She stands up, heads to the door.

  Oh Rose, really. I’m sorry. Please don’t go.

  Rose stops at the door and turns back but only because she’s interested to observe the charming way in which Violet will negotiate this little difficulty.

  He’ll bring you down, Rose. All this silly stuff with the Peace Pledge Union. He would never have done all that if it wasn’t for you.

  Violet, you don’t know.

  Yes, I do. Frank is weak. He’ll do anything for – that. Well, you must see. If you tell him to do something then he’ll do it. You don’t have to waste your time on him. There’s a hundred other people you could marry.

  The tragedy of this is that Violet is right. Rose has made no commitment to Frank and she doesn’t want to marry a man with no job. A minor matter of missed monthlies and morning sickness might have to be dealt with but Rose has talked to Mrs Watson and she knows a woman who can organise it all. Frank’s enthusiasm had punctured the membrane of her Dutch cap and she’d neglected to send off for another one. But it isn’t even certain that Frank is the man responsible for the pregnancy. Rose knows that she should finish with him, then she an
d Violet could go to house parties at Backley Grange.

  She looks around the sitting room now, recording the details because perhaps she won’t come here again. The stained-glass panels at the top of the window, the potted palm on its lace mat, the dark wood fireplace with its green-patterned tiles, the dark little oil painting of a landscape – Holland it must be, with those windmills. Her eyes fix on the lower part of Violet’s legs, slanted neatly to one side. The pale stockings she wears are wrinkled at the ankles above the buttoned strap of her shoes. Something about those flesh-coloured wrinkles is unbearably childish, pitiful.

  Rose, please. Don’t leave me. I thought you might come and live here – once Stanley has gone. We’ve got to stick together, haven’t we?

  I’m sorry. I’ve got to go.

  Please, Rose. Please. I was trying to look after you.

  Violet is on her feet now and catches hold of Rose’s arm.

  Rose, please. I love you. You know that.

  Rose finds herself swallowing back tears.

  Rose, you will come back later, won’t you?

  Yes, of course.

  Rose takes Violet in her arms and holds her tight. Violet’s small hands grip against her shoulders and her tears soak Rose’s blouse. Why is it so difficult just to leave? Violet is nothing but prettiness and frivolity, her moment has passed. And yet Rose finds herself clinging to her, stroking her hair. She’s tried so many times to dislike Violet, to dismiss her, but she’s never been able to do it. Wasn’t it always Frank she wanted, not Violet? Or was it the other way around? The two are indivisible, or should have been. Even though Violet is standing up now the wrinkles of those stockings still pucker at her ankles. Rose pulls herself away and turns to go.

  I must go. I’m due at the Peace Pledge office.

  Honestly, Rose Mayeford. You will kill yourself with all this. You will kill yourself. Do you hear what I’m saying?

  Outside Rose draws in deep breaths of the September evening but even the air tastes different now. It carries the dull sting of conscription, First Aid, gas masks and sandbags. Rose turns back to look at 34 Warwick Road with its white-cliff façade and its many stacks of chimneys. Violet is at her bedroom window, tiny and pale, a doll in a doll’s house, waving and waving. Of course, she isn’t really there but Rose can’t get that image out of her mind, Violet’s white dress and that tiny waving hand.