Bless ’Em All Page 19

  Charlie sat on the stairs, a picture of dejection. ‘I’d better go,’ he said. He stood up and walked to the door, his oversized shoes flapping.

  ‘You’ll get locked up, looking like that,’ Rosa said. ‘Look, I’ll ring our doctor and tell him you’ve had a nervous collapse or something, a breakdown.’

  ‘That won’t work,’ said Mrs Tcherny. ‘They’d all be at it.’

  ‘Look at him,’ Rosa shouted. ‘He’s a bundle of nerves.’

  The doctor was out on his calls, but he would get the message when he came back.

  ‘Who’s going to pay him?’ said Mrs Tcherny. ‘They charge half a crown just for calling round.’

  ‘I’ll pay him,’ said Rosa. ‘For pity’s sake, they might put him in hospital or something. You can see what he’s like.’

  Whether Charlie had finally broken or was rehearsing for his role as a mental patient was hard to determine. He sat on the chair in the hall, murmuring things that made little sense.

  ‘Get your proper clothes on,’ said Rosa. ‘You look a fool like that.’ So Rosa brought his Army uniform, to which Charlie reacted with horror, but he was persuaded to put it on, and Mr Tcherny on his arrival was told the whole story. He shook his head.

  ‘The world has gone mad. You did the right thing,’ he said to Rosa. ‘We can’t take the risk of harbouring him.’ He looked at Charlie. ‘Is this the Army that is protecting us? He’d do himself more harm than he would the enemy. This war is turning into a farce. They should have acted sooner. Everybody could see what this Hitler was like. Our people were set to scrub the streets in Vienna. Hitler has let loose the base side of human nature. When I think of Vienna, what do I think of? Strauss, Freud, the palaces, the Danube? No. I think of Jews scrubbing the streets while jeering gangs of louts kick their backsides.’

  It was dark before the doctor came. He was old and tired, in a crumpled suit that only just reached over his waistline. He looked like the pompous, small-town doctor seen in numerous films about country life in rural England, delivering babies by hand while riotously drunk. When he heard the story he called the police. Then he talked to Charlie, and Charlie gave him daft answers, acting now from a strong sense of self-preservation.

  ‘The lad has had a nervous breakdown,’ the doctor said. ‘Not much I can do about it. He’ll have to be handed over to the authorities. And good luck to him.’

  Two policemen arrived at the house. ‘Come on, son,’ said one. ‘Nobody is going to hurt you.’ It was clear that Charlie didn’t believe this story, for he struggled and shouted as they took him away. ‘Come on now,’ said the policeman. ‘No need to take on like that.’

  The doctor collected his fee and made out a receipt. ‘Battle fatigue. They forget that the human frame can only stand so much. By the time this is over half the population will be barmy. Good night.’

  16

  THERE were crisp March days. Muffled-up Londoners trudged to work in the frosty mornings as swans swam sedately on the Serpentine, and London seemed its timeless self. But there were black, frightening nights, when it seemed things would never be right again.

  The news was profoundly gloomy on all fronts. At sea as well the U-boat reigned supreme, and only a purblind optimist like Churchill could think that Britain might survive. France was occupied by the Germans. The flower of British manhood had been blighted and pushed back across the Channel in a massive retreat that the government had somehow turned into a victory. London, and other major cities – Southampton, Dover, Plymouth – were under continuous bombardment. The underfed, underground population were scurrying around like rats in what seemed like a black expressionist drama of Continental origin.

  There was always the threat of an invasion. The people knew that the bombing was only the prelude to an occupation. All along the south coast anti-aircraft guns pumped shells into the sky, more in a spirit of defiance than in the hope of a hit. Rumours of parachute drops of hundreds of Germans sent battered and nervous people into a frenzy. They knew that the enemy were not human, did not live by civilized values, were ruthless and fanatical, had been driven mad by Hitler’s propaganda machine and were beyond all reason. They had a military machine manned by robots; we had a half-trained amateur army, short of weapons, ammunition and resolution. They were polished and efficient; we were a disorganized rabble, Fred Karno’s Army, sloppy and slapdash.

  The newspapers tried to keep up a brave face, but the readers could read between the lines. That day the lead story in the Star, Evening News and Standard was identical – ‘Actress Found Dead’. They knew what their readers wanted. It was a good story, after all. The dead woman had been found naked, and you couldn’t ask for more than that. She had last been seen at Claridge’s Hotel. The head porter said that she left with a man he had never seen before. She seemed perfectly fine. After all, it wasn’t the first time she had left with a man. But this was different. This man was not a regular. Nobody in the hotel knew him. He was a complete stranger.

  Bert Penrose read about it in hospital in the Evening News. There weren’t many details, except the plays she had been in and her bit-parts in films. She hadn’t been in the front rank of film stars, but someone you saw now and again and soon forgot. She had been a handsome woman and had worked pretty steadily in West End plays: Autumn Crocus, Whiteoaks, The Ringer, sung in Ivor Novello spectaculars. Gloria Grainger – real name Enid Stubbs – had been married once, to a fellow actor, but divorced after two years. He had married again to a wealthy aristocrat and had, by a spectacular piece of foolhardiness, won a medal in the Dunkirk fiasco. Without actually saying it, the papers gave the impression of an unhappy woman, drifting from one man to the next, down on her luck and completely devastated by the closure of London theatres.

  Bloody hard luck, thought Bert, and what a waste. It didn’t say whether the murderer had done anything to her. He’d have to wait until the Sunday papers to know that. These women, they drove men mad: teased them, taunted them, made half-promises and then retreated. They paraded themselves, all done up. They asked for it.

  Bert had settled in at the hospital. They had given him a pair of crutches, and he had started to get about the ward. There was a solo school, and he hung about on the fringes hoping for a chance to play. They were only playing for pennies and ha’pennies, but they hid the money under a towel. If he got in, he would soon up the stakes.

  There were grounds that he could see through the window, lawns and tall trees and stumpy statuary, where men looking cheerful and relieved relaxed in the sun, smoking and joking. They were all servicemen, walking around in their loose, pale-blue suits, white shirts and red ties. Some of them had bandages around their heads, some had arms in slings, some plastered legs. It was like a twilight world. They had seen terrible things, been frightened to death and hurt, but now they were in this gentle country garden. If they had been killed this was what they might have imagined heaven would be like. Bert hoped that they would give him a blue suit when he got out of his dressing-gown and pyjamas. He fancied himself as a wounded soldier. If they dressed him in anything else he would feel like the black sheep of the damaged family.

  It had been funny finding a stump where his leg should be. Would he be entitled to any compensation, would he get a war pension or something? He hadn’t been in the Services, but he’d suffered the same as them. One thing he was sure of, he wasn’t going to sit in the street with a tray of matchboxes, like he’d seen some legless blokes who copped it in the last war. A disgrace that was. One-armed mouth-organ players, clanking their medals, with begging cups hanging around their necks.

  Edie kept coming, day after day, but she didn’t bring any joy. She brought Titbits and Answers and John Bull, but she didn’t bring any joy. Of course, she couldn’t get anything to bring: no chocolate, no toffees, no fags because they wouldn’t let him smoke, no beer. You couldn’t even get the old hospital standby, grapes, and there were kids who had never seen a banana. It was purgatory, really, and they expected him to be
grateful. Mind you, there were some lovely girls – they were, on the whole, a bit upper class, but they smiled at him, called him Bert, fluffed up his pillows while he sniffed at their powdered bodies, which, mixed with their natural body odour, would be enough to set the bloody Pope off. And they knew, these saucy minxes, they knew what he was thinking, imagining. They were all at it, making him excited and then looking offended. It was a game that women played, and men were the victims.

  Oh Gawd, there was Edie again. He couldn’t tell her not to come, but he wished she would leave him alone for a bit. Besides, what was it costing, getting out to Epsom every day? ‘Hello, love,’ he said.

  Edie looked shagged out, but she tried to smile. She didn’t seem to care what she looked like nowadays. All her clothes were rumpled, her shoes scuffed, her hair as if she had just got out of bed.

  ‘How are we to day?’ she said.

  ‘I’m all right,’ he said. ‘Browned off, of course.’

  ‘Any news? Have you seen the doctor?’

  ‘No, but I’m having a fitness instructor to show me how to work the crutches.’

  Edie’s eyes filled with tears. ‘I think Tim upstairs has got the sack’

  ‘What? From the water board?’

  ‘He went off in one of their vans, without permission.’

  ‘How did they find out?’

  ‘He ran out of petrol. Him and Bunty had to get a taxi from Bow.’

  ‘Blimey, that must have cost them a packet.’ Small talk was all he got from Edie. And yet he knew he was going to need her. Who else was going to care tuppence for a one-legged man? She was a good sort, big-hearted. He couldn’t help it if he didn’t fancy her any more, not like some of these nurses.

  The immediate task was to get better on the crutches. How was he going to manage in their basement quarters? If he couldn’t get out he would be living in a dungeon. The potential limitations of his life were a depressing prospect. How would they manage? Edie would have to get a job, which meant that he would be alone all day. He might as well stay where he was. At least he could see the light and the gardens and there were people about. Once he was home nobody would know he was there.

  ‘When do they think you’ll be ready to come out?’ Edie said innocently.

  Bert shrugged. ‘God knows. They don’t tell you much here. I think I’ll have to be better at getting about than I am now. But, listen, you don’t have to come out here every day. You must spend half your life travelling.’

  ‘It is a bit of a way,’ said Edie.

  ‘Well, give it a miss now and again. I won’t fret.’

  He was relieved when Edie went. It was a struggle of a conversation. She meant well. She’d been a brick really. He lay back and closed his eyes. There she was again, that Indian temple dancer who slithered like a snake on heat. He reached out towards her, but she evaporated. She never stayed around long enough for him to try his luck. Christ, what was he going to do? He was going to need lifting on and off. Maybe the strength he wasn’t using would transfer to his prick. No. Some hope of anything good coming out of this.

  Mrs Bennet was turning out her medicine cabinet. There was the liquid paraffin that Tom used to swig and rub into his hair, Carter’s Little Liver Pills, Clark’s blood mixture, Aspros, a bandage, scissors and tweezers that Tom got with Ardath cigarette coupons when he hadn’t got enough to get anything decent. There was a tin of mysterious pellets called Iron Jelloids – God knows what they were for. Tom had always reckoned that you should try this stuff before you called the doctor. Maybe if he’d called the doctor sooner he might still have been around. Not that he would have liked it, any more than she did.

  The nightly party didn’t last long. It had been quite exciting when they crowded into Edie’s basement, but now Edie didn’t get back from Epsom until late in the evening, and she was tired out, and Mrs Bennet felt that everybody else in the house preferred to chance it in their beds rather than endure a social with an old woman.

  There was that stuff that Tom got from that herbalist. It looked like pieces of tree bark floating in water. Suffered with his stomach, Tom did. She didn’t think any of this stuff was any use now. It had been around too long. It had probably lost its strength by now. She made a resolution and swept the whole lot into her apron and carried it out to the dustbin.

  There was that pain again. It was sharp and it took her breath away, but it didn’t last long. She sat down. Bert used to bring home the papers: the People and the News of the World. Always something interesting to read in those papers. Made you realize what was going on. The murders and stuff, even in wartime.

  What were they going to do now that Bert had lost a leg? If Edie got a job would they ask her to look out for Bert during the day? Mrs Bennet quite liked Bert. You could have a lark with him. Better than that uppity couple on the top floor. That Betty could do something useful instead of moping about all day, and, as for her husband, he seemed to think the King was his uncle.

  It was getting dark, and the racket would be starting up again. They said that there was an anti-aircraft gun on a coach on the railway lines and that it ran up and down, firing at the bombers. There had been some tremendous bangs during the night. When would it be possible to get a night’s sleep? She thought they might have knocked off on Sundays, but the heathens kept at it just the same.

  She had made up a bed under the stairs. Someone had said that it was the safest part of the house. Then she wondered whether Bunty was in. She hadn’t heard anything for ages. That husband of hers had a nasty temper.

  She scraped up the stairs, humming to herself. She knocked at Bunty’s door. ‘Hello. Anybody in?’

  ‘What do you want?’ said Tim’s voice sharply.

  ‘It’s all right. I just thought I’d better know who’s in.’

  Tim opened the door. He looked wild. ‘We’re all right,’ he said.

  Mrs Bennet peered into the room. They only had a table light on. There was Bunty, humped on the sofa in a terrific sulk and Tim looking sorry for himself. They’d had another tiff. They were having them all the time. There were screwed-up bits of paper all over the floor. When it was something important Tim wrote down what he wanted to say for Bunty to read. But she’d never seen Bunty looking so stony. Bunty was a naturally bouncy, bubbly person. They must have had a serious disagreement.

  ‘Wondered if you would like to come downstairs?’ Bunty stared at the wall and Tim didn’t say anything. ‘Just wondered,’ said Mrs Bennet, as she left.

  Tim was worried about Bunty’s attitude towards him. Since the incident when he attacked the man she had turned from jolly and bubbly into a cold fury. It was like living with a caged animal. Bunty couldn’t tell him what she thought, but she conveyed her feelings graphically enough. He had rung her mother and told her that Bunty was acting like a spoilt child, that he was trying to protect her, and this was all the thanks he got for it. Bunty’s mother said she would come over in the morning. It was through his wish to protect his wife from this wild man who knocked her about that he had lost his job. Not that it mattered. There were hundreds of jobs going, but he had liked the status of his peaked cap, his official bicycle and the turnkey. He could easily get a job in the fire brigade; they were crying out for men, but then he would be out all night in the thick of it. Most of the firemen he had seen looked as if they were living in a nightmare.

  He stood over Bunty and pleaded with his eyes. She had never been out with him for so long before. It seemed as if their union had crossed an invisible barrier, that whatever he said or did things would never be the same again.

  Behind the serene façade of Claridge’s there was an air of polite panic. The management weren’t too sure about the effect the publicity regarding Gloria Grainger’s murder was generating. The news that the hotel had been the last place she was seen alive had already brought in some curious customers, and that was welcome, but would the notoriety drive the regulars away? This was a place for discreet liaisons and polite meetings that
might lead to something more. The report that the actress left with somebody whom nobody knew suggested the place was used for purposes with which the management did not wish to be associated.

  And there were the practical problems that came with a police investigation. They had insisted that all the glasses used on the night were not to be washed. Normally they would have been washed and polished the next morning, but there had been a hiccup in the washing-up department, as the dish-washer hadn’t shown up for days. The police thought that there were bound to be fingerprints, which, when and if they had a suspect, would be important. They had said that it was all right to wash the dinner things and cutlery, but without the washer-up that wasn’t easy. He’d just vanished, without notice.

  At first the hotel felt that it was under siege. There were police everywhere, peering under beds, into cupboards, and drawing diagrams of the position of the tables and chairs used by Miss Grainger and her unknown escort. There were uniformed policemen outside and plain-clothes men inside stopping the staff from getting on with their work by asking strings of fatuous questions. Then there was the press, lurking around with suggestive glances, battered trilbys pushed back as seen in Hollywood films, treating every utterance made by management and staff like it was an outright lie.

  And just when they thought the fuss might have died down the papers produced a sketch on the mysterious escort’s features as remembered by the hall porter, and everybody was looking at everybody else in the place as if they might be Lobby Lud, the holiday man, who, when challenged, produced a reward of a crisp white five-pound note.

  Miss Grainger’s fellow actors said what a lovely person she had been and such fun to work with. Her ex-husband was found, but he was strangely non-committal about the affair. It was going to be a nine-day wonder.

  Bernard bought all the Sunday papers and read them with an increasing sense of bemusement. He didn’t know what had happened. He had switched off, just for a second, and she went limp. One thing was certain, he wouldn’t be going back to Claridge’s again or anywhere near. The drawing that was supposed to be him wasn’t very good. Thousands of men could have fit the description, and with all the bombing and general disorder of life, it was unlikely that the police would spend too much time looking for him.