Bless ’Em All Page 12

  They’d stopped playing cards and were just looking at each other in a kind of hopeless way.

  ‘I expect Bert’s stayed over,’ said Edie. Nobody said anything and the remark hung in the air as if waiting for affirmation.

  ‘Well, I don’t know about you people,’ said the young Mr May loftily, ‘but I’m going to bed. I’ve got work in the morning.’

  ‘What time is it?’ asked Mrs Bennet, desperately trying to prolong her outing, but nobody answered her. One by one they all trooped off, leaving Mrs Bennet and Edie. Edie started putting things away. She seemed distracted, on edge.

  ‘He’ll be all right,’ said Mrs Bennet.

  ‘I’ve got a funny feeling,’ said Edie, with a throb in her voice.

  ‘He’ll turn up in the morning. Right as rain. You’ll see.’

  ‘I hope so,’ said Edie.

  Tim Melrose ascended the stairs with a feeling of satisfaction. That Betty was an awkward bitch, but his persistence had worn her down. She didn’t want to tell him. It was only after he said that he needed to know where Bunty was, and that, of course, Bunty couldn’t tell him herself, that she came out with it. She didn’t know where the place was but she knew what it was called – the Hostess Club – and that was enough. It would be in the telephone directory. As he lay in bed beside Bunty, he knew he had the lever that would give him control over the situation.

  Betty May knew that she had done something wrong. That Mr Melrose had kept on and on. She didn’t like the intensity of his questioning. The way he put his face close to hers, staring into her eyes like he was trying to make a connection with her brain, read her mind. Of course, it was dangerous for Bunty to be out on her own. If anything went wrong she couldn’t even ask a policeman. On the other hand, she was uneasy that she’d sort of snitched on Bunty, given the game away. If Tim Melrose went to that dreadful dancing place he would soon see what went on there. Betty knew that Melrose was a violent man. There was that time when he tried to hit Bunty with that iron thing that he used to switch off the water. He had lost his temper completely. She wanted to talk to Stephen about it, but he had lost so much sleep already, and he had to get up in the morning.

  The next day was all hustle and bustle for Tim. A water main had burst at Kennington. As he cycled to the site he was proud to see that the connected pipes were all along the route and continued beyond. Surprisingly, considering the bombardment last night, there was no damage to be seen. The burst main was down to some other, more normal cause. He found the hydrant and switched the water off. At this point he thought of nipping over the bridge and finding this place where Bunty went, but there was a message for him to attend another site in Camberwell. And so it went on, all day, and everywhere he went there was this snake of hosepipes stretching along in the gutters. Despite the busy day he felt much more at ease with life. He was on to her.

  11

  MAURICE was having a terrible time with Clare. The nub of the trouble was that Clare had immersed herself in civic duties, the WVS, beetle drives for soldiers’ comforts, knitting socks that needed misshapen feet to wear them, collecting old newspapers for salvage and old books to send to the troops, giving cookery classes to show how you could make the miserable rations go further and innumerable coffee mornings and fêtes worse than death. Maurice wasn’t doing any of these things. Clare always seemed to be at the head of a column of charging females, carrying things from one place to another, stuffing bulging sacks of things into cars, making piles of other things to be shifted to another pile somewhere else.

  To Clare Maurice was a let-down. He wasn’t a fire warden, in the ARP or the Home Guard. He just carried on as if nothing had changed. As far as possible Maurice ignored the war. He went to work and came home. Likely as not he would spend the whole evening reading a book. All hell might fall in overnight, the house might crumble, the Germans might invade, a bomb might fall down the chimney, and, if any of these catastrophes occurred, Maurice would still be sitting in a chair, reading. Clare had nothing against books. It was just that there were other things in the world. The times demanded action, not indolence. It was unpatriotic, bordering on treason, to ignore the war.

  She couldn’t imagine what she had ever seen in Maurice. Whatever it was it had entirely evaporated. He had been a dreamy young man but a lazy lover. She might have enjoyed children, but Maurice couldn’t even get that business right. His mind always seemed to be somewhere else. Maurice was her first flush of romance, and she was convinced that she could knock him into shape, but after a while she realized that he was not going to change. You couldn’t even get through to a man whose attention was focused on the world of literature, to whom fiction was more real than reality and reality was too mundane to contemplate.

  To Maurice, Clare had become a comic figure. One of Wodehouse’s dreadnought aunts, perhaps, or a quirky spinster from Joan Butler. There was always the suggestion that Clare, in her Boadicea role, was actually leading this band of housewives, maiden aunts and gangling young girls into battle. He wouldn’t have been surprised if she had shouted ‘Charge!’ as she led the assorted females into their next task.

  In Cheam village he felt removed from the conflict. After all, it was a bus ride to Morden, through mock-Tudor land, and then a long trip on the Underground to get to the City. When he was at work he felt nearer to the front line, but at home he felt perfectly safe. All the more incongruous, then, was Clare’s barging around as if the Germans were just behind the garden hedge.

  He knew that Clare resented his calm approach to life, his refusal to be panicked into defensive action. His task, as he saw it, was to keep the business going, to preserve the normality of the book trade. For this he had to read the reviews, had to know what was likely to be in demand, so he could stock up. He’d been caught out before. He never thought that Mathematics for the Millions would be a bestseller, despite its favourable reviews.

  He was just trying to get the drift of An American Tragedy when Clare barged in, wearing her ridiculous uniform. She had a large sheet of paper, which she spread out on the dining-room table and proceeded, with a ruler, to mark it out in neat little boxes. Everything that Clare did needed a rota mapped out, headed by the days of the week and divided, down the side, by two-hour intervals. The chart detailed who was doing what on which day and at what time. Clare spent hours on these charts, which were displayed in the church hall. The hall had become the centre for WVS activities, and she was always nipping in to cross out one name and substitute it with another, until the chart assumed the proportions of a giant crossword.

  ‘Shall I get some tea?’ Maurice said.

  ‘You’ll have to get it,’ said Clare. ‘I’ve got to get this going.’

  ‘Of course,’ he said, tolerantly.

  How would Clare feel if she knew that he was meeting a young woman, secretly and regularly? Would it even register? And would she believe that this was a truly innocent friendship? Would she even care? Would she even pause in her quest to collect milk-bottle tops to build battleships? Had the war been invented to salvage women like Clare from meaningless activity and give them a role in life?

  It was getting dark now, and back in his real world they would be scuffing down for the night. As soon as it was dark the bombers came over. At home, on the borders of Surrey, they scarcely noticed them. There was a droning in the distance, but Cheam was not on their route.

  He made some tea and cut some bread, which he buttered and then spread with blackcurrant jam. The preserve had been bought at a fête in aid of God knows what. It was a bit tart, but then sugar was a scarce commodity these days. He had given up taking sugar in his tea to save some for making cakes.

  He wasn’t sure whether he was looking forward to tomorrow. He had put off considering the problem all through Saturday, but now it was Sunday evening. He had promised to meet Betty on Monday and take her to the warehouse, to show her the rows of books, the yards and yards of shelving, to explain the cataloguing system. He hadn’t been able
to put it off any longer. She had been getting petulant lately. On the surface he liked nothing more than to boast in his domain. The whole place was a wonder of organization. He could turn up a request in minutes, and it gave him great pleasure to display his efficiency. But, having seen the place, the girl would naturally think that the time had come to offer her a job, and he didn’t really want her about the place. She would soon become one of the staff, and the delightful conversations with him lording it over her ignorance would come to an end.

  After eating, Clare announced that she was going to bed early; she had a big day tomorrow. She made it sound as though she had been given the job of liberating France single-handedly.

  He sighed but said nothing. He could settle down in a chair next to the Christmas tree with the Sunday Times book reviews for an hour.

  As he read, fifteen miles away German bombs were taking a hand in Maurice’s order of events. Betty would never now see the warehouse in all its ordered glory, never smell that special smell that comes from freshly printed books, never get to know how a dusty ancient copy could be rubbed up to look like new. Never sample the temple-like atmosphere of Green’s warehouse.

  The day before, Saturday, had been Jimmy’s big day. Helen had agreed to meet him for an afternoon at the pictures. He had tempted her with a Norma Shearer film called The Women. He didn’t know what it was about and didn’t care much. If he had his choice it would have been an unremitting run of Laurel and Hardy, Abbot and Costello, Popeye and Our Gang. Norma Shearer spelt dreary, and so it proved. The film seemed to have got together half the female stars in Hollywood. Besides the tearful Norma, there was big-eyed Joan Crawford, Rosalind Russell, Joan Fontaine, Paulette Goddard and heaps more. Jimmy didn’t follow the plot but, nevertheless, sat through it in a haze of contentment.

  In the morning he had got on to his mum about some new clothes. She said she hadn’t got any coupons, but he knew that his dad could get stacks of coupons up Fleet Street. In the end she took him to the walk-round shop, where there were hundreds of pretty standard jackets and trousers all renowned as being ‘hard-wearing’. She was astonished when he went mad for a pair of grey flannel trousers and a blue blazer. ‘Going to Oxford, are we?’ she said. He couldn’t tell her that he was getting as near as he could to Greyfriars. She wouldn’t understand. If he could have got a striped blazer as seen illustrated in the Magnet he would have been better suited. He went home, had a bath and put some brilliantine on his hair. In the end he looked like one of Hollywood’s young stars scrubbed up for the finale of an end-of-term – and end-of-film – musical at Carvel High or some other fictional co-ed college.

  He had met Helen outside the cinema. It was a big place, the poshest in the district. It boasted ‘perfected air’, although, even if you sniffed hard, you couldn’t notice any difference. Inside there was a dark-blue sky with stars twinkling and high up in the ceiling a display of classical statuary of Greek gods jumping and crouching, bending and stretching in various poses of athletic endeavour. It was worth a tanner just to get into the place.

  When they met she seemed a little cold. It was clear from her manner that she didn’t want Jimmy to think that she was in any way keen to be in his company. She’d only come just to please him. She was quite capable of going to the pictures on her own or with any of her wide circle of friends. He had to be put in his place, and if he settled for it she might melt a little. There was a slight crisis when they bought their tickets. Jimmy thought it was up to him, but Helen wouldn’t hear of it. He insisted on paying for them both, but when he got the tickets she wouldn’t go in. She pressed her sixpence into his hand and when he wouldn’t take it slipped it into his pocket. Then, independence established, she allowed him to buy a box of chocolates from the girl selling them from a tray around her neck.

  When they sat down the organist was still playing. He swung around and smiled smugly, and then he and the organ gradually disappeared below the stage. The place went dark and the Three Stooges started bashing each other about. They weren’t as good as Laurel and Hardy. They were crude and brutal and spoke in jerky shouts. Helen plainly thought that they were beneath her consideration, and Jimmy didn’t dare laugh in case she thought he approved of their animal antics. Then it was the news. The same pictures of soldiers looking cheerful while up to their eyes in mud, Churchill giving the V-sign and the King and Queen being cheered by people who had just been bombed out of their homes.

  It was time for the stage show, but the house lights remained low and a notice came up on the screen: ‘An air-raid warning has been sounded. If anyone wants to leave, will they do so quietly.’

  Jimmy looked at Helen. ‘What d’you want to do?’

  ‘I’ve paid to see the film,’ she said. ‘You can go if you want.’

  ‘No fear,’ he replied, feeling a bit stung by the inference that he was keen to make a cowardly exit to the nearest shelter. However, the slight frisson gave him the excuse to slip his arm around her shoulders, and she appeared not to have noticed.

  The stage show wasn’t much: acrobats, all white powder, who did everything in slow motion. They were followed by a conjuror, who talked all the time, nervously, as though he expected someone to rush the stage and shoot him. He made jokes about Hitler and rationing and finished his act by extracting a huge Union Jack from a small cylinder, which got him a round of applause. He went off sweating but relieved.

  Throughout the second feature he enjoyed the closeness of her, the smell of her, the little tickle of her hair when it brushed his face, the sight, in the dim light, of her slightly pouting lips. This was it. She was real. He thought of his mum and dad and shuddered. Had they experienced this delight when they first met? This feeling of oneness, of being in a perfect harmony with another person? He drew her head closer and felt her tighten. Steady. Too quick. But then her hand found its way into his. She still stared at the screen, seemingly oblivious of the way her errant hand was behaving. He shifted nearer to her so that their faces were touching and sat there in bliss.

  When it was all over they debated whether to stay on and see the programme all over again, but, thinking of a second dose of the Three Stooges, Helen said she wanted to leave. It was, after all, six o’clock, and she had to get the tram to Battersea, and, although the all-clear had been announced on the screen, there was always the chance of another air raid as soon as it got dark.

  He went with her to the tram and got on with her, upstairs.

  ‘Where are you going?’ she said.

  ‘I’m going with you,’ he said. ‘To see you home.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘I can get there.’ But he could see that she was pleased.

  The tram clattered up to Clapham Common and then down Cedars Road. She lived somewhere off Latchmere Road. He walked along with her, determined to extend his outing with her as long as possible.

  ‘Good, wasn’t it,’ he said.

  ‘Norma Shearer was good,’ she said critically, ‘but I didn’t like Joan Crawford being in it.’

  ‘Nor did I,’ he said loyally.

  They stopped at the corner of her street.

  ‘Well,’ he said awkwardly. It was dark but he knew she had started blushing again. He pulled her to him and kissed her cheek. It was soft and cool. She drew him into a dark shadow. ‘We can go again,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you at Hodder’s. We’ll fix it up.’

  Suddenly her arms were at the back of his neck and her open lips were seeking his. He responded. It was like strawberries and cream, sausages and mash and cream soda. It was an extreme sensation of pleasure, like a mild electric shock, which gave some zing but didn’t hurt. It was something that he tried to fix in his mind so that he could recall the feeling later. He would dream about it, conjure it up in daydreams, live it all over again.

  He took her to her front door.

  ‘Helen,’ he said, with some depth of feeling.

  ‘What?’ she said.

  ‘Nothing. You’ve been great.’

/>   She looked down. ‘Not so bad yourself,’ she mumbled.

  All day on the Sunday he relived the moments, tried to recapture the cool, velvet feel of her skin, the feel of her lips on his, to imagine her voice, her looks, her smell, her presence.

  Betty gave herself an all-over wash in the small sink in the kitchen. It was easier than trying to negotiate a bath. It was always difficult if anyone wanted to come in to use the lavatory, and she was frightened to death of that brown geyser thing that spat small blue flames and sparks and rumbled as though it had eaten something poisonous. But she was determined to be at her freshest and smartest tomorrow. She wouldn’t just be seeing Maurice but all the staff at the warehouse. She wanted the make a good impression. She had ironed her blue skirt and jacket and a cream blouse that Bunty had given her some time ago and smoothed out a pair of silk stockings that had come from the same source.

  Stephen was lying on the bed reading a newspaper. She put on her dressing-gown. It was cream with a blue edging. She had it as a Christmas present when she was sixteen. There was just room in the small kitchen to make tea and toast. They had it every night and looked forward to it. There was no fire, but there was a fireplace. She sat down in front of it like it was a source of glowing warmth. Stephen looked up.