by Jan Casey
I should tell her, Joan thought. Tell her everything. About Ralph and how Cyril reminds me of him. Tell her that I throw myself at anything that Mother would hate me for. Make her understand that none of it is my fault. ‘Alice, wait.’ But Alice didn’t, and Joan stood by herself watching fat drops of rain quiver on the rim of her umbrella then slip off into the oily puddles at her feet.
*
A thumbs-up from Alice. Joan pulled the brake in the cab and watched as the planks were released and set down ready for collection. Alice was talking to a couple of women who hovered nearby, lining up lengths of wood. She gesticulated a lot when she talked; perhaps that was why her communications with Joan from below the crane were so accurate – or had the need to talk with her hands for work become part of her essence? Surely everything one experienced changed one in some way, she reasoned with herself. When Alice had first realised Joan was involved with Cyril and his black marketeering, she’d told Joan what she’d thought of her. ‘I didn’t see it at first,’ she’d hurled at her, as if she felt personally betrayed. ‘I thoughts you were ever so nice. But you’re sly, sneaky and underhand.’
When Joan thought about it, she could see that she might be everything Alice indicted her for, but she could not agree that Cyril or his cheap little business were the causes of her shifty deviousness. That had started a long time ago, with Mother.
One of the women said something that made Alice laugh, her wide smile pushing her cheeks up under her eyes. How lovely to be Alice, Joan thought. Natural, honest, open: a new score of music waiting to be played. No one gossiped about Alice, because there was nothing to blather about. How could anyone find fault with her easy manner, her wonder at whatever she saw, her enthusiasm and energy? Some of the others loved to rib her about her dialect, but it wasn’t vindictive and had ingrained itself into the everyday workings of the bridge. Most days, impressions of her Bristolian burr could be heard in passing from workers they hardly knew. Blushing in general had also been attributed to Alice. Whenever anyone reddened out of bashfulness or embarrassment, they were asked if they’d changed their name to Alice.
A hand signal that the crane should be lifted. Another to say the way was clear for grabbing a load of timber. It was a relief that when she was working the controls in the cab, she could not allow herself to think of anything else. When the arm was at its apex, she pulled the lever and raised the hook gracefully, like an inverted question mark, towards the next waiting load. Pedestrians were using the far side of the roadway now and Joan could see them on her periphery, through the windscreen wipers, heads down, hurrying with purpose across the river.
Alice stopped her with the flat of her palm and shifted the lengths of wood onto the hook. She checked the rope for strength and, when she was satisfied, motioned for Joan to lift. Three more loads followed until Alice chopped the air with her hand: break time. They worked well together. When Joan looked back, she felt ashamed to remember that when she’d first met Alice, she thought her no more than a yokel. Unsophisticated and provincial. Quickly she’d added naïve, unworldly and green to that opinion. Now here she was, envious of those same traits she renamed as innocent, sincere, reliable, straightforward. Perceptive and discerning. What she once thought negative characteristics, she now perceived as sterling qualities and wished life had allowed her to develop in the same way.
Following behind Alice and her two companions as they made their way to the canteen, Joan wondered what Alice’s mother was like. Ma, Alice called her. Nothing like Mother, Joan assured herself, or else she wouldn’t have had a daughter like Alice. A few days after Mother had delivered her violin to Hazel’s Hostel, Joan had answered Alice’s persistent questions by saying that Mother had been unhappy about her leaving home. Alice looked away, but didn’t say anything. Joan wondered if Alice’s Ma hadn’t wanted her to go away either, but not for the same selfish reasons as her own mother. Probably it was simply that she would miss the girl so much. She would have liked to ask Alice more about her Ma and her life at home, but knew she would then be expected to offer information of her own in exchange.
At knocking-off time, Alice plonked herself down on the bench next to where Joan was changing, putting her belt on a peg, loosening her turban. Patting her fine wisps of hair, Joan could tell that her earlier prediction had been correct: the style had flagged and lay listless against her head. She pulled a comb through it, trying to force a wave or two, and pinned it behind her ears.
Alice smiled across at her. ‘It suits you like that,’ she said. ‘Off your forehead.’
‘Thank you, Alice.’ The formal tone in her voice made her cringe.
‘Are you meeting…?’
‘Yes,’ Joan said, determined to sound enthusiastic. ‘I am.’
‘See you sometime later at Hazel’s then.’
*
She was going to meet Cyril, but not until later. Somewhere to sit was what she needed, and a bit of time on her own. There was a Lyons on the corner of Tottenham Court Road and Oxford Street where she could probably find a table at the back away from the clatter and chatter.
A square of apple something was on the plate in front of her. She took a bite from the corner and couldn’t decide what it was; it remained apple something. At least the tea was good – strong and hot. Her table was crammed into a corner next to the swinging service doors; her view was of a wall, flocked burgundy wallpaper below the picture rail, a photo of the outside of the shop above. This sort of setting was not unusual to her; Cyril would think this secreted spot, with its bleak outlook, perfect for one of their encounters.
Where else did they go besides darkened corners and shabby, deserted clubs frequented by other couples hiding away like them? What else did Cyril do except look over his shoulder and start whenever a door opened or a dark-haired woman came towards them on the street? During the summer, they’d met a few times at some stop along the Green Line and had a drink sitting outside a country pub. They’d wandered across fields and through copses, stopping to eat their picnic on a rough blanket Cyril had squashed into a holdall. Then they’d made love in the open, hidden by trees and foliage. She’d wanted Cyril as much as he’d wanted her, but if it hadn’t been for the thrill of imagining Mother’s reaction if she knew, each time would have been a disenchanting anti-climax. The way the light dappled through the tree branches, illuminating first the tops, then the undersides of the swaying leaves, was much more interesting than what Cyril was doing, or trying to do to her.
She thought she’d feel the way she had with Ralph: extraordinary, different, the centre of the world. But Cyril hadn’t taken the time and trouble that Ralph had; she only knew it was over when he lay still and started to talk about what he would have for her to sell the following week. There was hardly a damp patch to wipe from between her legs.
It was more difficult for them to be alone, as Cyril called it, now that winter had set in. Once or twice they’d used his cousin’s place in Kenton or taken a B and B as a married couple. Those times had been a little better, Cyril making it plain he felt less rushed or pressurised indoors.
Joan hadn’t thought about it this way before, but the same problems would have arisen with Ralph had they not had his offices at the Hall to retreat to. A few times they, also, had found some furtive hidey-hole where they could have a drink and gaze into each other’s eyes. Those occasions had been magical to Joan and she had truly believed that Ralph had felt the same.
Lately, she had been listening with what felt like a tinge of envy to some of her co-workers laughing and talking about arranging to meet man friends in public places like cinemas and museums. Having dates with officers in well-lit restaurants, dancing in crowded ballrooms with their arms wrapped around all manner of strong shoulders without having to worry about who might see and report them to unassuming wives. Could Mother have been right? Was Ralph nothing more than a Svengali? The thought caused her such physical pain that she could not pursue it. She could, perhaps, accept that title for Cy
ril, but not for Ralph.
She asked a passing Nippy for another cup of tea. When it arrived, she stirred it so vigorously that the spoon, when she let it go, was caught in a vortex and circled the cup a couple of times of its own accord. She was quite sure she didn’t love Cyril and probably didn’t like him, either. He had reminded her in some vague ways of Ralph and, illogical as it was, she had thought he would prove to be very like him. But then, Mother wouldn’t have thought that out of character. Her latest letter to Joan had said as much.
I do firmly believe, Joan dear, that you’re not thinking straight. If only you’d come home and let me help you take up the strings again.
Joan couldn’t remember the rest verbatim, but it went on and on in the same vein. Draining her tea, she made up her mind about Cyril; tonight she would give him the heave-ho.
Joan looked at her watch; Cyril would be waiting for her in the doorway of the Coach and Horses, squinting occasionally from the shadows to scan the street, not for her, but for anyone who might give him away. She pressed a serviette to her lips, then dropped it on top of the apple something. Peeking in the mirror of her powder compact to refresh her lipstick, she thought she looked less drawn and preoccupied and put the palpable changes down to the decision she’d made.
*
Cyril’s mood was lighter than it had been for ages and Joan found herself enjoying his company. Perhaps, she thought, she had been a bit too hasty. He kept his hand firm around her waist, pulling her close, stroking her hands and ears. Sitting at the end of the bar furthest from the door, they talked about an air raid that had fallen just short of the bridge.
‘I do hope it’s not starting up again.’ Joan winced. ‘That horrid bombing, night after night.’
Cyril laughed, touching her hair with a fingertip. ‘Don’t you worry about that. Jerry’s busy elsewhere.’
‘How can you be so sure?’ she asked.
Tapping the side of his nose, Cyril said, ‘Would I lie to you?’
She raised her eyebrows and looked at him from under them. ‘Probably,’ she said. ‘You lie to everyone else.’
He feigned hurt, his bottom lip protruding in a pout. ‘You’re the exception,’ he said, linking his little finger around hers. ‘Now, I have some exciting news.’
‘Oh?’ Joan wondered what it could be. Perhaps his wife was going away for a few days and he was going to invite her to play house, or he’d sniffed out another flat they could use for an hour or two on a Sunday. She could hear herself agreeing to the arrangement despite her better judgement of earlier.
‘Spam.’ He mouthed the word and then smiled, pleased with himself.
‘Pardon me?’
She could see the tiny black hairs on his nose and a brilliantine shine on his moustache as he leaned closer to her and whispered. ‘Spam.’
Joan pictured turning the key around the blue tin with yellow lettering, the pale pink slab of meat laced with ashen blobs of lard slithering in pallid aspic onto a plate. She could smell the spitting grease permeating the kitchen, finding its way into wardrobes, hair, cushions, drying laundry. Even so, when she thought of the taste, her mouth watered. ‘Spam,’ she said, ‘is not exciting.’
‘To many people,’ Cyril said, ‘Spam is a banquet. I’ve seen you tuck in with relish a number of times.’
‘Needs must,’ she said, remembering the fritter sandwiches they’d shared in the woods last summer.
‘Exactly.’ Cyril relaxed back. ‘If it’s needed then it’s a must, and musts will always sell.’
‘Oh, Cyril.’ Joan groaned. ‘You’re not telling me… not Spam.’
‘I can start you off with three dozen,’ he said, as if he were doing her a favour. ‘And there’ll be plenty more when that’s gone.’
‘Cyril.’ She withdrew her hand from his tinkering fingers. ‘I’ve been intending to tell you something for ages.’
His arm slipped from around her back; he fiddled with his tie. ‘Had enough of me, have you?’ He looked into his whisky before putting the glass to his lips.
For a moment, Joan felt pulled in two directions but decided she wasn’t quite ready to give up on him yet. ‘No, not you,’ Joan said. ‘This selling business.’
‘I thought you were game for it,’ he said, lowering his voice and spitting out the words. ‘When we first met you said you didn’t care what you did or what people thought of you. “Let them talk,” you said. “I couldn’t care less.”’
That was true, Joan thought. She had said that, or words to that effect, and at the time she’d meant them. He was staring at her, challenging her. She wouldn’t tell him about Alice or her feelings of moral reprehension. He’d laugh at her, never let her forget it. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘that was before there was a fine involved. A monkey, I think I’ve heard you call it.’
He snorted. ‘I know all about that.’ He leaned into her again. ‘Do you think they’d ever come after a young lady like you?’
‘I’m not prepared to take the chance,’ she said. ‘You don’t pay me near enough to cover the fine if it came to it so all in all, it’s not worth the bother.’
A few minutes of silence passed. Cyril pointed to his empty glass and the landlord brought him another. ‘Yes or no?’ he asked Joan, indicating her drink.
‘Yes. Please,’ Joan said.
After he paid, Cyril went out to ‘turn his bike around’, as he put it. He lit them both a cigarette when he came back and said, ‘I understand, my dear. But do you honestly think I’d put my darling in the way of any danger?’
‘I certainly like to think not,’ Joan said.
‘Whisper in my ear how much of the stuff you have left.’
Joan had to calculate. Her large work bag was full and there was a fair amount stashed away in her bedroom. Cyril nodded when she told him what she could remember being left of each item.
He looked thoughtful, counting on his fingers, his mouth working as he reckoned the numbers. ‘I tell you what, Joanie,’ he said. ‘Sell that lot for me and I’ll give you twenty-five per cent. There won’t be any need to worry, I’ll cover for you as I’ve done all along anyway. Then that’ll be the end of it. What do you say?’
Joan found herself nodding in agreement to what felt like a compromise.
With one swift, calculating look around the pub, Cyril pulled her to him and kissed her hard.
*
The tatty treasure seemed to fly out of her hands. She didn’t want to say anything to Alice until she’d stopped completely, but let it be known to her regulars that her bag was not bottomless and before long they’d have to look elsewhere for their little extras. The news, she knew, would soon spread to Alice’s ears and she would be pacified.
By the middle of February every last item was gone, as was the German 6th Army from Stalingrad. There was a subtle, infectious shift of mood, initiated by newscasters and radio announcers, spread by newspaper reports and Epic Pathé bulletins. Evelyn, whose Dad seemed to know about military strategy, said the turning point had come but he was advising Winnie to keep at it and not get carried away with excitement yet. The cold was incomprehensible to Joan, watching the news from a cosy cinema seat during one of the warmest Februarys she had ever experienced. No wonder there was no snow in London; by the looks of it, the world’s quota for that winter had fallen on Stalingrad. It had crippled soldiers on both sides, that and hunger. How they’d kept going was a mystery to her. But somehow the Red Army had battled through. Running from building to building, defending a pile of bricks to the death. Steel-hearted, the press called them. They never gave up and now they had victory; the Allies had victory in Russia. The poor souls, they stared vacantly at her from the screen until their beleaguered eyes shifted and the wounds from deep within surfaced. She hoped they thought it was worth it.
The Government certainly did, seconding the Albert Hall for a Salute to The Red Army. Eden gave a speech, poems were recited, military formations displayed, Joan’s orchestra from the Hall played throughout. No,
she corrected herself – it was no longer hers, thank goodness. She and Alice crouched next to their crane sharing a ciggie, listening to Evelyn read aloud a newspaper article about the event.
‘They might have got some better music,’ Evelyn said. ‘You know, something a bit livelier.’
Joan laughed and said, ‘Not all classical music is a dirge.’
‘Oh well.’ Evelyn put on a toff’s accent and flicked her finger under her nose. ‘I wouldn’t know, I’m sure.’
‘Have you heard them play then, Joan?’ Alice asked.
‘Once or twice. A long time ago,’ Joan said.
‘I love music.’ Alice was watching her carefully. ‘Were it good?’
Joan shrugged. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Very professional.’
‘Let’s celebrate ourselves,’ Evelyn said, tossing the paper aside.
‘It’s only Wednesday,’ Alice said. ‘I don’t know if I’m up to it.’
‘Oh don’t be such an old frosty-knickers,’ Evelyn said. ‘Let’s go and see what the Yanks are up to in Piccadilly. You know you love it there.’
Alice blushed. She did like the GIs and they seemed to think a lot of her. She’d told Joan she could picture herself in a sprawling house in Florida or California, maybe Texas. Joan didn’t have the heart to tell her that the Yanks who went for her were from farming states like Idaho and Wisconsin, probably seeing in Alice the physique and fortitude for getting up at the crack of dawn to milk cows or drive a tractor. ‘Maybe for a little while,’ she said.
‘Joan?’ Evelyn asked, pulverising her cigarette butt with her boot. ‘Or have you got something else on?’
‘Yes,’ Joan said. ‘I have.’
Alice smiled at her behind Evelyn’s back. Joan had told her that her business dealings with Cyril were over. Alice had been so pleased that Joan was sure she had made the right decision. She’d got what she wanted, for once: a bit of self-respect, deference from Alice, the freedom to meet Cyril with a clean conscience. And Mother would be horrified with all of it.
