Bless ’Em All Page 23

  Maurice moved to his armchair to listen to the news at nine o’clock. Clare was still arranging piles of papers in the background and filling in one of her endless rotas, pursing her lips like a child puzzling over a jigsaw. He picked up a newspaper. He had got used to reading between the lines, and it wasn’t good news, although Churchill, as usual, said it was. There was a picture of an actress who had been found strangled. A motiveless crime, said the police. Dead in her own flat. Been there for days. Ironically she had been found by her agent, who couldn’t get her on the telephone. The agent had some news of a part in a film. He thought of the marks on Miss Tcherny’s neck. Surely not. Bernard hadn’t got the courage, the conviction, to pull off a murder. And yet he recalled Miss Tcherny’s verdict: ‘He was like a madman, almost as though he didn’t know what he was doing.’ He shook his head. It was too fanciful. Bernard might act like a lout, but he was smart enough to keep himself out of trouble. And yet, Bernard was always under the impression that he was being put down in some way, overlooked, slighted. But how would Bernard get intimate with a West End actress? She would soon see him for the oaf that he was. No. It was impossible. Bernard wouldn’t put himself in that position.

  Maurice folded the paper carefully. ‘I’m off to bed,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a busy day tomorrow.’

  Betty quite enjoyed the bustle and knocking of the workmen down below.

  She watched as they unloaded the big pane of glass from the long lorry, and went downstairs to watch them fit it into the window. Mr Gerston was watching, too.

  ‘Not too much damage to the stock,’ he said. ‘The insurance people are prepared to take it as read, as long as we keep it within bounds. They just haven’t got the men to assess every piece of damage.’

  She invited him up for a cup of tea, and he began to talk. He had trained as a pianist but realized that he wasn’t good enough to make the top grade and so became the manager of a music shop. He still played, to demonstrate the pianos and for his own pleasure. He also gave lessons, mainly to children, but there weren’t many children around any more. They had been sent away, as had his own wife and child, spending a prolonged holiday with relatives in Wales. He hadn’t sold many pianos lately; people were just not interested in music now. The only sheet music they sold in the shop nowadays was patriotic jingles and sentimental songs about the possibility of couples being reunited after terrible times. Wartime songs had replaced ‘the latest pantomime hits’ and the yearning, summer songs of the seaside.

  Betty was soon as impressed by Mr Gerston as she had been by Maurice Green. Maurice knew about books, but Mr Gerston knew about music. She asked him what kind of music he liked, and he offered to bring a gramophone from the shop and play her some Strauss, which, he judged, would suit her uninformed taste. That night around six he asked her if she would like to accompany him for a quick drink.

  ‘Where?’ she said, excited and fearful at the same time. Women had only just started to go into pubs. The war was breaking down inhibitions. Women in uniform thought themselves equal to men.

  ‘It’s a place where I used to play,’ he said. ‘The Glenroy. It’s not like a pub. It’s more of a hotel. I just thought it’d be nice to unwind.’

  What would Stephen think about her stepping out with a man she had only just met? He wouldn’t object. As Mr Gerston said, it wasn’t exactly a pub, and Mr Gerston himself was very polite, just like Maurice, and she could do with the company.

  The Glenroy was trying hard to hold on to its reputation for respectable gentility, if not quite Palm Court. There were barrels of geraniums in the entrance porch and staid Victorian pots holding stern leafy plants with rugged trunks that seemed to forbid any excess drinking or behaviour in their presence. The place was divided into different rooms marked ‘Private’, ‘Saloon’ and ‘Public’. Mr Gerston steered Betty into the saloon. It was funny, because the bar in the middle served people in either bar, and you could see people in the public, but not in the private, which was secluded on the left. Betty didn’t know what to ask for. On the door, bevelled in glass, the gold lettering said ‘Wines, Spirits and Beers’.

  ‘What can I get you?’ said Mr Gerston, knowing that his guest had no knowledge of the range of drinks on offer. ‘What about a sherry?’

  Betty looked confused. ‘Yes, if you think so.’

  ‘Sweet or dry?’

  ‘I don’t mind,’ said Betty, ‘really.’

  They settled by the fire, which was laid but wasn’t lit. There were three couples besides themselves: a young WAAF with an RAF officer, who looked strained and thoughtful; an older man, stout, with a short haircut, accompanied by a younger woman who bunched herself up in her coat as though she hoped that nobody would notice she was there; and an odd couple, small and neat, wearing berets tight on their heads, who sat grinning at each other like two elves out on a spree and who only had to look at each other to break into suppressed fits of giggles.

  There was noise coming from the public bar, but there were only whispers in the saloon, where looks, for the most part, substituted for speech.

  ‘Have you heard anything about your husband?’

  ‘They say he’s comfortable,’ Betty said.

  ‘They don’t tell you much, do they? Do you mind if I smoke?’

  ‘Not at all,’ Betty said primly.

  Mr Gerston produced a pink packet of Passing Cloud. When he lit the cigarette there was the delicate whiff of a foreign perfume. It was a new and pleasant experience, sitting in this quiet room with Mr Gerston, sipping sherry and breathing this exotic smell.

  ‘I do envy you,’ said Betty. ‘Playing the piano.’

  Mr Gerston shrugged. ‘I’m not very good,’ he said. ‘I don’t keep up the practice. I’ve let it all go.’

  ‘Oh, you shouldn’t,’ Betty gushed.

  Mr Gerston drew heavily on his cigarette and wafted the smoke away with his hand. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘I know, but there’s only so much time in the day.’

  Suddenly there was a shout. It came from the public bar, where a face could be seen urgently wanting recognition.

  ‘Bertie,’ said the face. It was a red, round face with an even redder nose and a halo of white hair. ‘Bertie,’ it repeated, getting louder, and the other occupants of the saloon seemed to wince at the intrusion.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Mr Gerston.

  ‘Bertie. Round here.’

  ‘Is it someone you know?’

  ‘I’m afraid it is,’ said Mr Gerston. ‘My father.’

  ‘Are you going to join him?’

  ‘I think not,’ said Mr Gerston loftily. ‘I think we’d better go. I’m sorry about this,’ he added. ‘This is not his usual haunt.’ He drank his sherry and indicated that she should do the same. But she just couldn’t drink it all down in one go.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘Don’t choke yourself.’

  Suddenly the door swung open and Mr Gerston senior was coming forward with a jovial smile of greeting. ‘If mountain won’t come to Mohammed …’ he said thickly. ‘How are you, Bertie? Aren’t you going to introduce me?’

  Mr Gerston looked uncomfortable. ‘Mrs May, my father.’

  Betty looked up at the Father Christmas face, quite jolly – but the eyes were light blue and not so jolly.

  ‘Good to meet you,’ said Mr Gerston’s father. ‘Mrs, eh Bertie? Oh well. No skin off my nose.’

  ‘We were just going,’ said Mr Gerston stiffly.

  ‘We can have a quick ’un, can’t we, dear?’ said Mr Gerston’s father. ‘Jerry won’t be over for a bit. What’s that you’re drinking?’

  ‘It’s a sherry,’ said Betty, ‘but I don’t think I’d better have another.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ cried the old man. ‘Here, Bertie,’ he said, fishing in his pocket. ‘Get them in.’

  There was a change in the atmosphere of the saloon bar. The RAF officer was wearing an indulgent smile, the man with the stiff haircut motioned to his companion that they should leave, and the two e
lves couldn’t believe their luck.

  ‘It’s a terrible business,’ said the old man. ‘I was in the last lot, you know. That was a real war. Hand to hand, cold steel and all that. And what thanks did we get? F-bugger all. Land fit for heroes? Bol-baloney. And it wasn’t asking a lot. Most of the poor bu-beggars never came back. Pity. They missed the Means Test. Sell that table. You don’t need a mangle. Wonder they didn’t tell you to sell the wife.’

  ‘Dad,’ said Mr Gerston. ‘I don’t think Mrs May needs to know about your war experiences.’

  ‘No,’ said the old man. ‘She wants to know about the after-the-war experiences, when we were all living on tuppence ha’penny. You see, they’d spent all the money on blowing people up, and they hadn’t got enough left to look after those who were left over. Oh, it’s a joke. You think you’re making sacrifices for something better, but when it’s all over it’s a blood-blimming-sight worse.’

  The RAF officer was beginning to look uncomfortable; the old man wasn’t keeping his voice down to the saloon-bar level, he was still in public-bar mode.

  ‘You take this Churchill. They wouldn’t have the silly old bugger in the government before the war. Now they’ve put him in charge. But it ain’t made no difference. He’s still a silly old bugger. The reason they put him in charge was that he was the only one that wasn’t in with Hitler. They thought that the Germans would go for Russia, which is what they wanted. Kill two birds with one stone. But this Hitler, he ain’t no fool. He’s going to finish us off first. Then he’ll have all our factories, munitions and that to turn on the Russians.’

  The Air Force officer had gone white. He stood up. ‘That’s enough of that defeatist talk,’ he said. ‘There’s people dying for our country, our freedoms.’

  ‘It may be your country,’ said the old man, rounding on his accuser, ‘but it ain’t mine. What about freedom of speech, eh? Is that why you’re trying to shut me up?’

  The two little elves, who might have been two women or one of each sex, looked at each of the protagonists in turn. The man with the short trim haircut and his mysterious companion had left. The WAAF tugged at the RAF officer’s sleeve. ‘Sit down, Nigel,’ she said. ‘He’s drunk.’

  Mr Gerston’s father heard the remark. ‘That’s as may be, miss, but I’d say the same if I was cold sober. This lot, who’s in charge of everything, they don’t know what to do any more than you and me. Look at the state of us. Nothing in the shops, eating cats’ meat, beer like water, being bombed from arsehole to breakfast time, working flat out like bees in a hive, paying tax up to our armpits. And what for? So that Lord Shitface can go on with his hunting and shooting. The people in this country – load of mugs. Always have been, always will be.’

  Betty was shocked and yet fascinated by the old man’s tirade.

  ‘That’s enough, Dad,’ Mr Gerston said.

  The old man sighed. ‘Yes. I suppose you’re right, Bertie. Don’t do any good. Freedom of speech. It’s all right saying things, but it don’t make no difference, do it?’

  Mr Gerston was full of apologies on the way back to the flat. ‘He gets a drink or two into him and he goes off like a rocket.’

  ‘I didn’t agree with what he was saying, but he is interesting.’

  ‘Nobody agrees with what he says,’ said Mr Gerston.

  ‘What was that he called you? Bertie?’

  ‘Yes. It’s Bertram really. I don’t know why they called me that. Must have been to Bertram Mills’s Circus, I expect.’

  ‘No,’ said Betty loyally. ‘I think it suits you.’ Betty was feeling slightly less overwhelmed by Mr Gerston after the encounter with his father. ‘Bertram,’ she said.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Betty.’

  ‘It’s been very nice,’ she said. ‘Taken me out of myself. Thank you for taking me. You’ve no idea how lonesome I get.’ She looked at him sideways. He was quite handsome, with his dark complexion and wavy hair, and artistic, too.

  Mr Gerston looked down at her sparkling eyes. There was no doubt that the girl was excited, stimulated by what she had seen and heard. She was like a new leaf, slowly opening and taking stock of its surroundings. It would be an experience and an amusement to introduce her to the many things in life that she did not appreciate. At least it was an interest. She put the key in her door and went in, leaving the door open. He took the hint and followed her upstairs. It was a nice roomy flat, but it lacked all those things that gave a home character. Of course, she’d only just moved in, but somehow he didn’t think that her presence would make any impression. She was like a blank sheet of paper, waiting for someone to make a mark on it. It was an intriguing prospect.

  She made a pot of tea, and he smoked one of his cigarettes.

  ‘They do smell posh,’ she said.

  ‘Turkish,’ he said. ‘Well, a mixture.’

  She looked at him, her mouth open, her shoulders relaxed. She was feeling somehow different. Was it the drink, the smell of the cigarettes, the bizarre outing? She was in this new flat with a new man, and Stephen was in hospital, a few miles away.

  ‘I think’, she said, watching his face for a reaction, ‘that I would like to play the piano. Would you teach me?’

  He laughed. ‘You’d need a piano first.’

  ‘Oh, that would be all right. I could manage it.’

  Hello, Gerston thought. A woman with money. And I thought that, with her husband away, she would be up against it. ‘Well, I could soon sell you a piano,’ he said, ‘and I could teach you to play it.’

  She smiled a secret smile. She was like a child, he thought. She had a woman’s body but an undeveloped brain.

  There was a bakelite wireless on a table. He walked over to it. ‘Does this work?’ he said and switched it on. There was music, delicate music. Mozart.

  ‘Do you like that? Or Henry Hall?’

  ‘I like this,’ she said. ‘What is it called?’

  ‘Eine Kleine Nachtmusik,’ he said loftily.

  ‘Ooh, what’s that?’

  ‘It’s Mozart: A Little Night Music.’

  ‘Do you know everything about music?’

  ‘Well, no, but this is a very popular piece.’

  Betty licked her lips. She was feeling cosy. She was at home with this man. He didn’t look down on her because she didn’t know anything about music. And he was smart and polite all the time, despite having that dreadful old father. She spread herself on the sofa, feeling somehow luxurious, expensive.

  Gerston recognized the signs. The woman was feeling fruity. She didn’t know it, would not acknowledge it, but with care and consideration he could encourage her mood and bring it to a fruitful conclusion. Women behaved like this almost unconsciously and would have been shocked if anyone had told them that they were behaving provocatively.

  He knelt down beside her on the floor. It had been a quiet night. No sound of planes, no siren. He’d better get on with it. If that damn thing went off it would disrupt the mood completely. He leant over and kissed her full on the mouth. She moaned a little and clung to him. The music weaved intricate patterns but always proceeding with logic and neatness. It was pure music, untainted by any other consideration. It rose and fell but never quite attained a crescendo, moving surely on like a river of clear bubbly water.

  He slipped his hand down the front of her dress and she gasped, not, he thought, from any sense of outrage but with the shock of pleasure. He pulled up her dress and she closed her eyes, not daring to imagine what would happen next. It wasn’t so much a seduction as a submission. She was married, but so was he, which didn’t so much double the deception as even it out. They were two strangers caught up in a whirlpool of life. Life that could be shortened or ended at any time without warning. If they did one thing to express their existence it could be in a single act of love-making. The one act that defied the war, the mess that life had become, the sheer worry of surviving in a world careering into ultimate catastrophe.

  Betty felt fear and pleasure but somehow no s
hame. She had been placed in an impossible situation. Bertram had been kind to her. He was obviously a man of some education. If she hadn’t met Stephen and married him she would have been pleased to have met Bertram. She hadn’t known that such men as Maurice and Bertram existed, and she’d had no idea that they would bother with her.

  As they climaxed the siren sounded. It was back to the real world again, after a moment of bliss. Back to military bands instead of Mozart, to thinking about rations and gas masks and how long this bloody war was going to last.

  Bertram eased himself off Betty’s exposed body.

  ‘I haven’t drawn the curtains,’ she said.

  ‘We don’t need the light on,’ he said. ‘We can just lie here and nobody will ever find us.’

  ‘Who?’ she said, puzzled. And he winced. She was a plain and simple girl all right. Not subject to flights of fancy. Play the piano? Never.

  19

  ROSA stared at herself in the mirror. Her neck was still red and blue. When Bernard had grabbed her she thought it might have been the end. She had felt herself blacking out. And the way he had looked, with a sort of mad mist in his eyes, it was probably fair to say that he didn’t know what he was doing. A rage had lifted him out of his senses. It is true that she had never liked him, and why she agreed to help him in his sordid little enterprise she couldn’t think. It was the fear of not having a job and not wanting to be forced to take one of the routine jobs that were going, mainly in factories. At Green’s she had led a civilized existence – and it wasn’t anything to do with the war effort. Why was everybody so keen to make bombs, parachutes, Army clothing, guns or get into uniform? The bloody war had distorted values, caused a kind of mass hysteria. By keeping together in factories, canteens, shelters, desperately singing and laughing in boisterous groups, people bolstered their confidence, all whistling in the dark together. As far as Rosa could see the next move would be occupation. It had happened in France, Belgium, Holland, Poland, Czechoslovakia, Austria. Why did these British think it couldn’t happen to them? They thought that foreign countries weren’t proper countries, and all foreigners were crazy anyway. And if Hitler arrived, what would happen to them, the Jews? Would the natural-born British people lift a finger to protect them, if their own lives were put in danger as a consequence? Had they in Austria, or anywhere else? Would Hitler let Mosley out of detention and put him in charge? That was a laugh. When Mosley was detained under some regulation about potential traitors people had written to the papers protesting. Not Mosley’s supporters but Englishmen protesting about the erosion of free speech. These English! They had it coming to them.