You’d think I’d just performed a series of quadratic equations instead of simply subtracting twenty-three from two thousand and nineteen. I sometimes despair of the youth of today.
I feel the vibration of her phone at the same time she does. She stands up and fishes it out of her pocket, frowning as she stares at the illuminated screen. She taps out a message, her thumbs a blur of black nail varnish.
‘I told him I was staying late,’ she sighs. ‘Honestly, he’s so forgetful sometimes.’ She shows me a photograph of a grown man pulling a sulky face, his bottom lip protruding like a spoilt child’s. Tendrils of jet-black hair curl over his bandanna and, behind his lilac-tinted sunglasses I can see he’s wearing eyeliner. Never trust a man who wears sunglasses indoors, and as for eyeliner? Well, I expect you can imagine how I feel about that.
‘That’s Beau, is it?’
She strokes the photo with her forefinger, smiling at the image. ‘Isn’t he gorgeous? He’s taken a selfie to show me how sad he is that I’m not at home with him. He’s not had anything to eat apparently, poor thing.’
‘Lost the use of his legs, has he?’
‘What? No, of course he hasn’t. It’s just I usually get the tea on.’ She thrusts the phone back into her pocket. ‘I’ll fetch him a little doggy bag from the buffet.’
She takes another sip of her fizzy wine and surreptitiously glances at her watch. ‘I feel bad now,’ she says. ‘I should’ve reminded him this morning, but he was still asleep when I left and I didn’t want to wake him.’ She drums her fingers on her thigh.
‘Candice, you go home if you want to. No need to stay on my account.’
She pats my arm. ‘Absolutely not. This is your special night and I’m not going anywhere until I’ve seen you into bed.’
‘I don’t want to get you into any trouble, love.’
She frowns. ‘Trouble? There’s no trouble. Beau’s not like that. As long as he knows where I am, he doesn’t mind me going out once in a while.’
‘That’s good of him,’ I say, but the sarcasm seems to go over her head.
I suddenly can’t be bothered any more. The little paper plate on my knee’s not up to the task. It’s too flaccid, and a couple of cherry tomatoes have rolled onto the floor. ‘I think I’d like to turn in now, Candice.’
‘What!’ She jumps up, knocking my glass off the coffee table. ‘Oh bugger,’ she says, bending down to retrieve it. ‘Well, at least it’s not broken. I’ll fetch you another and then we can have the toast. You can’t go to bed before we do the cake.’
She claps her hands and manages to get everybody’s attention. ‘Okay, listen up now, peeps. Jenny needs her beauty sleep, so we’re going to cut the cake and sing “Happy Birthday”.’
As Candice lights the candles, somebody makes the inevitable gag about having the fire brigade on standby. There aren’t a hundred candles – that would be ridiculous – but there are at least fifty, spread over the four tiers.
Frank suddenly appears at my side, offering his elbow. ‘May I?’
He smells divine; he always does. I shuffle to the edge of my seat and brace myself. With one hand planted on the arm of the chair and Frank hefting me by my elbow, I manage to stand on the first attempt. He pulls my walking frame towards me and doesn’t let go of me until he’s sure I’m safe. The cake is over on the other side of the room, and I’m worried the candles will have burned down before I reach it. Candice hasn’t planned this very well. As I lumber across towards it, a tuneless rendition of ‘Happy Birthday’ is sung at an agonisingly slow pace. To a round of applause, I manage to find enough breath to blow out the few candles that haven’t burned down to the icing. I feel Frank’s arm around my shoulders as he gives me a squeeze and a kiss on the cheek. ‘Happy birthday, Jenny.’
‘Speech,’ shouts Candice, cupping her hands round her mouth.
The room falls silent with expectation and I suddenly feel choked. Most of the people here are virtual strangers, cajoled into attending the birthday party of an old woman who’s outlived everybody who ever mattered to her. In my mind’s eye, the years roll back. It’s like looking at one of those old newsreels with stuttering black and white images, people moving faster than they did in real life.
Back in my room, I sit on the edge of my bed as Candice kneels on the floor and rolls down my tights. She notices my swollen feet and absently massages them. I don’t know what they pay her in here, but it’s not enough.
‘Did you have a nice time, Jenny?’
‘I did, love,’ I say with sincerity. ‘It’s a long time since anybody did something like that for me.’
She stands up and tosses my tights into the linen basket. ‘Do you need any more help getting into your nightie?’ Without waiting for my answer, she unfastens the zip on the back of my dress. ‘There, I’ll leave you to it. Be back shortly with your cocoa.’
I appreciate the gesture. She’s done the difficult bits for me – the tights and the zip – and now she’s left me to get on with it. It’s important to instil self-worth and a level of independence even for someone my age. I still have my dignity. I’ll forgive her for the lipstick incident earlier.
I’m sitting up in my single bed by the time she returns, udder cream still dewy on my skin. I reach out for the mug with both hands. I’m not really a shaky person, especially considering my age, but I’m not taking any chances. Neither is Candice. She’s only filled the mug to three quarters. I stare at her face, marvelling at the freshness even at this time of day. Her eyebrows alone are something to behold. They’re the most important feature of the face, so she tells me.
She wanders over to my dressing table and picks up a framed photo. ‘Who’s this beauty?’ she asks.
I dug out the photograph this morning. Thought it would be nice to remember I used to be able to turn heads. ‘It’s me, you daft article. Can’t you tell?’
She holds the picture up next to my face and blows out an appreciative breath. ‘Absolutely stunning, Jenny. You must’ve been fighting them off in your day.’
Modesty prevents me from going overboard, but she’s not far off the mark. I’ve often wondered if my life would have turned out differently if I’d looked like the back end of a bus.
She returns the photo to the dressing table and her eyes settle on the polished wood of my jewellery box. ‘I haven’t seen this before either.’ Her fingers fumble with the catch and she lifts the lid. There’s a fine line between nosiness and interest.
‘Fetch it over here, love.’
She carries the box across to my bed and settles herself on the duvet. ‘It’s gorgeous, Jenny.’
I’m glad she appreciates the craftsmanship that went into making this box, but it’s what lies within that makes it truly special. Not jewellery, but a lifetime of memories.
Uninvited, she sticks her hand in and pulls out a wooden carving of a girl, her arms outstretched, encircling an empty space. I stiffen as she turns it over in her hands.
‘Looks like there’s something missing from it.’
I take a sip of my cocoa. ‘There is.’
I don’t elaborate as Candice has another root round and pulls out a pebble, a pink marbled pebble picked up off a faraway beach a lifetime ago. I hold out my hand and she drops it into my palm. The familiar contours are comforting, even though my heart aches at holding it again. I promised to treasure it, and I have for many years. I still do.
Candice is rummaging through letters, photos and old newspaper cuttings yellowed with age. She pulls out a two-column clipping, one that has only resided in the box for a few months. The paper is still white and the ink has not lost its sharpness. The headline jumps out at me, and even though I’ve seen it countless times before, it never loses its impact. I close my eyes for a moment. There’s just one word: Slaughtered!
She peers at the article, her eyes narrowing. ‘What’s all this?’ she asks.
I take the clipping from her, fold it in half, then take a breath. ‘I need to ask a favour o
f you, Candice.’
‘Sure,’ she says, breezily. ‘What can I do for you?’
She sounds as though she’s expecting me to ask her to pop out for a loaf, but she’ll soon realise it’s more than that. Much more.
‘There’s something I need to do, and I can’t do it by myself. I need someone I can trust to help me. By the time I’ve told you my story, though, I hope you’ll understand just how important it is that I make this journey.’
‘Journey? What journey?’
‘It’s the last chance I’ll have to lay the past to rest.’ I take her hands in mine, squeezing them until my knuckles turn white. ‘Please say you’ll come with me, Candice.’
2
1940
Jenny Tanner gripped the little boy’s pudgy hand. It felt like a ball of dough in her own cool palm. She offered him a reassuring smile. ‘Can you try not to look so sad, our Louis? You’ll put folk off.’
As the sun spilled in through the skylights, dozens of other evacuees milled around the community hall, some crying, some pushing and shoving, some gazing open-mouthed at the sight of the trestle table laid out with slabs of fruit cake and cups of tepid milk. The feverish atmosphere only added to Louis’s apprehension.
Jenny nodded towards the table. ‘You want some?’
He pouted and shook his head. ‘Not hungry.’
‘You must be! You haven’t eaten for over three hours.’
‘Feel sick. I wanna go ’ome.’
Jenny sighed. ‘Remember what you promised Mummy? You told her you’d be a brave lad, didn’t you, hmm? You even crossed your heart,’ she added solemnly.
She regarded his tear-streaked face, the smattering of freckles across his nose, his ears, a furious red colour, sticking out just a little too much. Their tearful departure a few hours earlier had been so traumatic, Jenny was convinced poor little Louis would be scarred for the rest of his life. Their mother had done an admirable job of keeping the mask in place, even though it was obvious to Jenny that all she wanted to do was give way to the tears and let her face crumple. She had hugged her son so tight his cheeks had turned crimson and he was forced to beg for freedom. He had had another paddy when he found out he was only allowed to bring one toy. The obvious candidate was Mrs Nesbitt, the one-eyed teddy he slept with each night, rubbing the bear’s ear under his nose until he drifted off. Peter, the stuffed rabbit Jenny had knitted him when he was born, had been the first casualty of the war, and Louis had made a wholly disproportionate fuss at having to leave him behind.
‘I only ask one thing of you, Jenny,’ their mother had said. ‘Stay together. At all costs, stay together.’
Jenny’s stoicism had almost wavered then. ‘But what if—’
‘No, no.’ Her mother had cut her off. ‘I won’t hear of it.’ She’d clamped her hands over her ears and shaken her head.
When the train had pulled into the station, Louis had clung to his mother’s leg and she’d had to limp along the platform, dragging the dead weight of him behind her. Jenny boarded the train first and held out her arms to the boy as their mother peeled him off and offered him up to his sister.
Jenny knew how hard it had been for their mother to let them go. Connie Tanner had stubbornly resisted the first wave of evacuations seven months earlier, but with Hitler’s army gaining ground with each passing month, the so-called Phoney War had come to an end, and she had finally agreed that her children would be safer in the countryside.
She felt Louis tugging her sleeve. ‘What now, Lou?’ she asked distractedly, eyeing the billeting officer with his officious clipboard.
Louis pointed to his shorts, a damp patch between his legs darkening the fabric.
‘Oh Louis, why didn’t you say you needed the lav?’
‘I don’t know where it is.’
‘We could’ve asked.’ She bit back her impatience. ‘Give me your case. We’ll have to get you changed. Nobody’s going to want a little boy who wets his flamin’ pants.’ She aimed for a breezy tone but fell short by some distance.
She beckoned to a sturdy woman in a WVS uniform, her buttons straining against her ample bosom. Her mother’s words rang in her ears. Be polite, talk proper, don’t let them think they’re better than you. ‘Excuse me, we’ve . . . er . . . had a little accident.’ She tilted her head at Louis.
‘Oh bless him.’ The woman crouched in front of him and held out her hands. ‘Come with me, bach, and bring your case. We’ll have you clean and dry in no time.’
‘Give Mrs Nesbitt to me.’ Jenny held out her hand and Louis reluctantly let go of his teddy.
Watching them go, she slumped gratefully into the nearest chair and pressed Mrs Nesbitt to her face. The bear smelled of home; of the liver and onions her mother was so fond of cooking even though they both hated it. Crushed by tiredness, she dug her fingers into her scalp, massaging away the beginnings of a headache. Goodness only knew what a state she must look after the two trains and a bus ride it had taken them to get here from Manchester. With a determined effort, she stood up and limped over to the trestle table, her cane thumping on the wooden floor. ‘Is there any of that fruit cake going? Erm . . . please.’
A purple-faced woman in a floral housecoat slid two pieces onto a green china plate. ‘It’s bara brith, home-made it is.’
Jenny frowned and brought the plate up to her nose. ‘Smells like fruit cake to me.’
The woman pursed her lips. ‘It’s bara brith, and you’d better get used to it.’
They had only been told they were going to Wales after their first train journey. It was another country, where they spoke a different language. Her mother would have kittens when she found out. Jenny had gazed in wonder at the road signs and the unpronounceable village names full of knotty consonants she’d never be able to get her tongue round. From Llandudno Junction, the coach had followed the bends of the river until they had arrived in the little market town of Penlan, deep in the Conwy valley, the verdant hillsides dotted with sheep, a distinctly agricultural smell hanging in the air.
‘Here we are then,’ announced the WVS woman, returning with Louis in tow. ‘All clean and dry.’ She pushed him towards Jenny. ‘You be good for your mammy now.’
‘Oh no,’ said Jenny, pulling him onto her knee. ‘I’m not his mother, I’m his sister.’
‘His sister?’
‘That’s right. I’ve evacuated with him because it’s not safe for me in Manchester either.’ She took a shallow breath. ‘It’s my lungs and my leg, you see.’
The woman nodded, although clearly she didn’t see.
‘Polio,’ Jenny confirmed. ‘When I was twelve.’
‘Oh dear, well that’s . . . that’s unfortunate.’ Blushing, the woman turned and bustled off.
Jenny folded her arms and leaned back in the chair, her head resting on the wall behind. She dared to close her eyes and almost at once felt the pull of sleep. She could hear the low bubble of voices as children were selected by host families and led out of the hall and into the unknown. She felt someone squeeze her shoulder. ‘Excuse me.’
She sat up and blinked. ‘Yes?’
The billeting officer pointed to an elderly couple who were standing by the table sipping cups of tea. ‘They would like to offer this young chap a billet.’
‘Louis?’
‘That’s right.’ He held out his hand to Louis, who sat cross-legged on the floor at Jenny’s feet. ‘Come with me then, young man.’
As Jenny stood, her cane toppled to the floor. ‘Oh no, I’m sorry, he can’t go without me.’
Louis clung to her leg, squashing his face into the folds of her skirt.
‘They only have room for one of you, I’m afraid. I promise you he’ll be well cared for. They’ve had children of their own, so they’re no strangers to little ones.’
‘Listen to me, either I go with him or else he doesn’t go. We’re to stay together.’
The billeting officer tried to stifle his impatience. ‘No, dear, you listen to me. T
he people of this community have been kind enough to extend a welcome to you and all these other city kids, and throwing that back in their faces is not conducive to good relations.’
‘Please,’ she implored. ‘Look at him, he’s distraught, he wouldn’t survive without me.’ She reached out and touched the man’s arm. ‘There must be somebody who’ll take us.’
He looked at his list, running his finger down a column. ‘Mmm . . . The Evans family are down to take two, but they’ve requested two strong lads to help out on the farm. Neither you nor your brother fall into that category,’ he sniffed.
Jenny looked around the hall. Indeed, most of the older lads had already gone, leaving only a forlorn group of young waifs, clutching their boxed-up gas masks and oversized cases, bewilderment written into their expressions.
She stared hard at the man before bending down to speak to Louis. ‘Will you go with them, Lou?’
He clutched a handful of her skirt. ‘No, Jenny, please. I want to stay with you.’
She swallowed down her annoyance at the billeting officer’s intransigence. She would’ve liked to tell him where he could shove his clipboard, but decided that appealing to his better nature would be more productive. ‘Look, he’s a sensitive lad and I promised our mother we’d stay together. Surely there’s something you can do.’
He tapped his pen on his chin. ‘Wait here.’
Louis peeled himself away from Jenny, his eyes swollen with tears. He stuck his thumb into his mouth and twirled a piece of his hair in his fingers. Jenny felt the first flutter of exasperation. Why did he always have to be such a baby? She sank into a chair and closed her eyes, unable to fight the crushing tiredness any longer.
She woke to the clatter of china being cleared away and chairs being scraped along the wooden floorboards. She rubbed the stiffness from her neck and eased a dozing Louis off her knee and onto the floor, settling him onto her coat. The chatter of apprehensive schoolchildren had gone and she tuned in to the billeting officer, who was having a rather fraught conversation with a young man who’d just burst through the doors, all of a fluster. ‘Am I too late?’ she heard him ask.
The Memory Box Page 2
