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  Besides, he was busy setting up his new enterprise. Miss Tcherny was coming over. He was hoping that she would take over all the office work, leaving him to go on the road getting orders. When she arrived Miss Tcherny seemed curiously distant, as though she had something other than work on her mind. It was clear that there wouldn’t be much to do at the beginning, and she wasn’t too keen at being stuck all day in the wilds of West Ealing in a garage with no heating. Bernard explained that things would take off when he got going. In the end Miss Tcherny said she would try it for a week. It was further than she wanted to travel. He readily offered to pay the difference in her fares and let her off early, so she got home at the same time. He wanted her there in the mornings to start receiving the stock and answer the telephone when he was out. He was getting a carpenter to put up some shelves. He ended up by taking her out to lunch. It was a dreary meal in a local pub, with potatoes and carrots heaped on the plate to disguise the paucity of meat, but she had a snowball and told him about her boyfriend who had just been called up, and how he hated being in the Army. She asked him about Maurice, and he had to confess that he hadn’t seen his brother since the disaster.

  ‘It must have been a shock to him,’ said Miss Tcherny and told of meeting Maurice in the street and how distressed he had been.

  ‘He’ll have to get over it,’ said Bernard. ‘We’re not the only firm that copped it. Most of the publishing industry was wiped out in two nights. But not all,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘The people I deal with are mostly all right.’

  He walked with her to the station. He quite liked Miss Tcherny, he decided. They would get on well.

  Miss Tcherny sat on the train back to Paddington and reviewed the situation. It was a bit more money, and easier hours, but the time she would spend travelling would even it out. She didn’t like Bernard. There was something shifty about his manner. Mr Maurice was straightforward. He might have been a bit of an old duffer, but she trusted him. You couldn’t imagine him doing anything underhand. Not so with Bernard. And this business that he had concocted out of the ruins was just skimming off the cream. The solid background of Green’s was the wide diversity of the stock, of the ability to fulfil all orders, however obscure. What Bernard had in mind was a get-rich-quick scheme, dealing with a selection of books that offered a quick turnover.

  But these musings occupied second place to the misery she felt about Charlie. His contorted face when the policemen dragged him away, his general unsuitability for military life and his unsuitability for life in general as it was lived today. Charlie had lived in a cocoon of cotton-wool happiness that he had constructed from his general insecurity. The war had caught him out. If it hadn’t been for the war Charlie would have bumbled on until the end of his days without having to face up to any of life’s realities at all. Jews were always aware of life, of its frightening twists and shocks. They felt themselves lucky if they could get through a day without a catastrophe. Where was Charlie now? Would they keep him at the police station or hand him over to the military authorities? And would he see a doctor, about his nerves, his hysteria, or would he just be punished for being absent without leave? She couldn’t get his tragic, comic face out of her mind. He was like a hurt child who had just had a slap from a beloved parent. Could she make some enquiry? Should she contact his parents? She didn’t want it to appear that she was in any way connected to Charlie, but she couldn’t help being concerned. The night they had spent together was not going to be a bond for the rest of their lives: she had thought of it as a kindness, not a commitment.

  That evening she discussed it with her parents. ‘Nothing you can do,’ said her father. ‘In these days you have to let matters take their course. If you start questioning things you can end up in trouble. These are sensitive times. There is no room for compassion. Everything is black or white. Germans bad; English good. What is it they say? The only good German is a dead one. After the war they will have to settle, but now if you were to start to ask what has happened to that poor lad you might get accused of tempting him to desert his post.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said her mother. ‘It doesn’t do to stick your neck out. We’re not living in a sane world at the moment. When peace comes we shall see how silly we have all been.’

  They sat in silence, a silence of acceptance of the injustice and insanity of life in wartime, but with the background knowledge of their position in their adopted country. They were Austrians, not Germans, and the authorities had cleared their residence in Britain. They were registered as British, but any step out of line might lead to complications.

  ‘What about your new job?’ her mother asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Rosa. ‘I said I’d give it a trial. He’s an odd sort of man. I don’t trust him.’

  ‘When was trust a condition of employment?’ said her father.

  ‘I was hoping that the other brother would contact me,’ said Rosa. ‘He’s got my address and number.’

  ‘In the meantime,’ said her mother, ‘the devil you know.’

  ‘Oh, he’s a devil all right,’ said Rosa. ‘I know that.’

  Charlie hadn’t been kept long at the police station. Two burly redcaps came and bundled him into an Army lorry. He was driven to a barracks somewhere near the Thames, with flagstone floors and the all-pervading smell of sour milk laced with carbolic. And when he got inside they kept shouting at him to stand still, to double up, to march forwards and stop, turn right, then left. He tried to comply, but he never seemed to get it; his mind was always behind the command. They put him in a cell. An officer came to see him who talked to him gently. The officer, a captain, seemed sympathetic and was a relief from the clattering boots of the redcaps, who shouted all the time as though they were calling to him from the top of a mountain.

  What had caused him to run off like that? Charlie hadn’t any explanation. He didn’t like the Army. ‘None of us like it,’ said the captain. ‘It’s what we have to do. You see what the swine are doing? Killing women and children. No regard at all for human life.’

  Charlie nodded dumbly. The captain’s expression hardened, and his manner changed abruptly. Charlie was shocked, feeling somehow that he had been fooled by the captain’s soft approach. ‘You know what’s the matter with you, soldier? You’re in a blue funk. That’s all.’

  And then another officer came, a doctor. He asked if there was any insanity in Charlie’s family; did he have headaches, did he have fits, could he read what was on that card? He sounded his chest and took his pulse and told him to get a good night’s sleep – and, strangely enough, he did.

  The next morning a very young, almost apologetic, officer with a shy smile and short fair hair and blue eyes came and explained that he would be speaking up for him at his court-martial. Could he offer any explanation for his sudden flight? Was he worried about anything at home? Anything to do with his parents; had he got a girl into trouble? When Charlie refuted all these suggestions the young officer looked worried. ‘I think we’ll have to plead temporary insanity,’ he said.

  And Charlie wondered: was there a chance that he wasn’t quite right in the head? All the other chaps at the camp had seemed to cope with their new way of life, so why couldn’t he? It had been such a shock, the shouting and the coarseness of their commands. Was coarseness a sign of manliness? Even the simple instructions on how to clean a rifle with a four-by-two piece of flannel looped into a string pull-through was described as ‘a cow’s cunt stuffed with bluebells’. And the idiotic orders about lining up his clothes and stuff as though it was in a shop window in Regent Street – there was no sense in any of it. Was the purpose to make him fighting mad? But then, if everybody else accepted these insane proceedings as normal, where did that leave him? The only man out of step must be mad, mustn’t he? Maybe if he’d stuck it out things might have returned to normal eventually. On the other hand, if he had got used to this rough view of life he might never be sane again.

  They had taken his name and address with
the promise that his parents would be informed. Would his mother and father be ashamed of him? Would his case be reported in the papers? What could happen to him as a result of the court-martial? Well, it couldn’t be much worse than this cell with its squalid child-sized toilet, with slop food and water and someone peering in at him every few minutes. He could go mad in this place. That would suit them: ‘We didn’t do anything. The boy was pots for rags, a screw loose.’

  And Rosa. It was clear that she was sorry for him but also impatient at his foolishness. She was sensible. She would have known how to cope with a difficult situation. She wouldn’t have run away.

  There was a bed that you had to pull out to its full length. It creaked like a ghost in the Tower of London. There were three squares of mattress, called biscuits, and two blankets. He arranged them the best he could. They said that if you ate soap you foamed at the mouth. He had to do something to prove that he wasn’t all there. Give them a show.

  Jimmy was pleased when his money arrived from Green’s in the shape of a postal order. There was a note that said ‘Will write later’. He presumed that it was from old Maurice. He wasn’t a bad old stick. Did that mean that he was still working for them? He showed his dad.

  ‘They have to give you two weeks’ notice,’ he said, ‘or pay you two weeks’ money.’

  ‘Yes, but the place isn’t there any more.’

  ‘That’s not your fault,’ said his dad. Jimmy thought this was a one-sided view of events – after all, it wasn’t old Maurice’s fault either – but as his dad’s reasoning came out on his side he was prepared to accept it.

  So he was on holiday, but what could he do? There was Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire on at the pictures, which was all right, as long as they didn’t keep on doing that singing and dancing all the time. He treated himself to some better fags. State Express were twice the price of Player’s Weights, and they smoked a lot better. So he had some money in his pocket and time to spend it, but these benefits did not lift his spirits. The disappearance of Helen had left a hole in his life. What did the pictures matter if you hadn’t got anyone to go with? What did anything matter? His dad had been allocated an allotment on Clapham Common. It was right up by Clapham South station. He helped his dad start digging it over, and they had finished up with a huge pile of bricks. It looked like the government expected everybody to grow their own food. Dad had become quite interested in growing vegetables and had bought Mr Middleton’s book about it. Mr Middleton was the old buffer who talked about digging for victory on the wireless. He made it sound easy and good fun. He wanted to get over to Clapham South and see the pile of bricks: it would need some hardy old spuds to force their way up from under all that rubble.

  Jimmy was conscious that he was marking time until he could get some news about Helen. If old Maurice was starting up again, there was a fair chance that Hodder’s would start up, too. After all, there had to be books, and old Maurice was all for keeping things going. He used to get cross when they were late getting to the post, which he seemed to think, in some mysterious way, was helping the enemy. And yet old Maurice was completely dazed when he and Miss Tcherny had seen him in the street. Didn’t seem to know what day it was. Miss Tcherny had taken him to the Underground.

  He kept thinking he saw Helen. Her straight copper-coloured hair, her grave, perky face, her plump button nose, her honest eyes and her delicious lips. Dreaming about her came to him with the force of reality. He dreamt about her at night and day-dreamt during the day. He saw her passing by in buses, buying things in shops, staring at him from across the road. She haunted his entire life. Was he imagining that she was as nice as he thought? Could anyone be that perfect, that exciting, that lovable? He tried to think of who she was like: not Sylvia Sydney or Norma Shearer; Ann Sheridan, possibly, but Helen’s eyes hadn’t got that knowledge of what men were thinking. What about the English stars? Most of them talked as though they’d just had lessons in speaking, but there was Patricia Roc, who had challenging eyes, full lips and an air of independence, which she maintained until she submitted to the fade-out kiss.

  He had been misled about girls. They never featured in the Gem or Magnet. The boys of St Jim’s and Greyfriars didn’t even have sisters. It was said that Billy Bunter had a sister called Bessie, who was as fat and horrible as he was. But nice girls, ordinary girls, girls you could take out and kiss, they were all alien to the public-school crowd. What was the matter with them?

  In the end, Maurice was glad that Bella had emerged and tracked him down. She had never cared much about the business, had always wanted to convert her share into cash, and now she was right to be annoyed that the opportunity had gone. But, after she had lashed out at him, she had settled down and started to make some practical suggestions. ‘A business isn’t just the premises,’ she said. ‘It’s a name, a reputation. That is still intact. You have your contacts –’ Maurice intervened to say that all the records had been lost in the fire and dust. ‘Yes, but you know them,’ said Bella. ‘You know the names. The addresses you can get from the telephone book. You can soon reconstruct you clientele. But it will have to be seen that you are still functioning. Get in touch with your old clients, assure them that service will continue as before, then you will still have a business, and then we shall have something we can sell. Look at you. You’re worn out. Just get it up and running. I’ll do the rest.’

  It was heartening to hear Bella talk in this fashion. The idea of reconstructing Green’s had not been in his mind. But Bella was right. They shouldn’t just cave in. It had taken fifty years to build the business to its level of eminence in the trade. Before him, his father has started the warehouse in a small shop premises in Blackfriars. It was a pillar of the book business, not something to be given up lightly.

  ‘But where?’ he said.

  ‘You’ll have to use this address to start with, while we scout around and find somewhere central.’

  Suddenly he felt as if something might rise from the ashes. They would never be able to replace the old stock, but they could start now and make sure they had everything current. Despite the war new books were being published, and, of course, there would be an outpouring of books about the war in due course. It would only be a limited service at first, but it could expand.

  ‘What about the staff,’ Bella said, ‘have they been paid?’

  ‘No,’ he said.

  ‘Well, pay them. You’ve got their addresses?’

  ‘Some of them.’

  After Bella had gone Maurice felt elated. Even Vice-Admiral Clare had been impressed by Bella’s decisiveness. Maurice thought he would ring around some of the publishers and proclaim the resurrection of Green’s. The first place he rang, the warehouse manager seemed surprised.

  ‘Just thought I’d let you know that we are starting up again.’

  ‘I know,’ said the manager.

  ‘And to give you our temporary address.’

  ‘I’ve got it,’ said the manager. ‘I’m sending some stuff off today. It’s West Ealing, isn’t it?’

  17

  BETTY felt she was being left behind by events. Stephen had got his promotion to store manager. As staff members were called up there was a game of musical chairs to plug the gaps. The manager at Stephen’s branch had been sent to a larger store, and Stephen was the youngest ever to have been appointed a manager in the whole company. Of course, if it hadn’t been for the war he would have had a long time waiting in the wings, as it were. They said he was only on probation, but Betty was sure that he would make a go of it. The trouble was that she felt even more at a disadvantage. She had nothing to do all day. Stephen wouldn’t hear of her working in a shop. With his new position he didn’t want his colleagues knowing that his wife was a shop assistant in another store, but her situation made life so boring.

  The extra money provided by Stephen’s advancement gave them the opportunity to move out of number seventy-seven to somewhere better. She longed for a better kitchen, for a sitting-roo
m that did not also double as a bedroom. Stephen needed a wardrobe for his clothes, and she needed a dressing-table with a mirror. Stephen insisted on her wearing a beret when they went out because her hair was still part blonde, although the dark roots were beginning to take over. Why had she ever allowed Bunty to persuade her to dye it? She wasn’t prepared to keep dyeing it, not like Bunty, who was always walking about with a towel around her head like a turban.

  Something was going on with Bunty and Tim. Tim had left his job at the water board and was driving a delivery van for the big department store in the high street. Tim didn’t look at all happy, and Bunty had lost all her bounce. Bunty didn’t invite her in any more and often glared at her on the stairs like she had done something wrong. Of course, you couldn’t ask her, so you had to swallow it. Betty wasn’t sure whether Bunty even went out any more.

  The first thing was to convince Stephen that they should find better accommodation. After all, he couldn’t invite his work people around to a one-room flat with a shared toilet. She pored over the letting columns in the local paper. There were places in Norwood, Norbury and Streatham with two bedrooms and own bathroom at double the rent they were paying currently. There were cheaper places in Balham, which, she had heard, was quite nice. The trouble was that when Stephen came home he was whacked out. He sat in a chair looking limp and went to bed early. He coughed a lot at night and sweated so badly that she was forced to open the window.

  Stephen was cautious about committing himself to paying more rent. ‘Something will turn up,’ he said, which meant that he didn’t want her to go looking for it. Since the new job he had gone pale and thin. Sometimes she urged him to take a day off – he really needed a holiday – but Stephen seemed terrified to take time off.