After the War Is Over (15 page)

“It’s been so long since I went to the pictures that I couldn’t even hazard a guess.”

“I confess the same. Shall we try this cinema? It looks nice enough.”

The Scala’s program had already begun, although the man at the box office assured
them they had only missed some old
Charlie Chaplin shorts. Their seats were good ones, on the aisle no more than six
or seven rows back, and although it was only a Thursday night there were musicians
in the pit at the front—not an entire orchestra’s worth, but more than the single
pianist who played at most cinemas.

They arrived just in time for the newsreels, which seemed to please Mr. Ellis to no
end. The Peace Day celebrations took pride of place: the nation’s armed forces parading
past the king, bonfires the length and breadth of the land, and joyous pageants and
tea parties in the smallest villages and largest towns. The destruction of Luton’s
town hall was not featured, nor were more recent incidents of rioting and unrest in
the United States and Canada. As seen through the lens of a newsreel editor, the world
was a marvelously untroubled, calm, and united place.

The pictures themselves, though terribly silly, were very entertaining. The first
was a paper-thin romp entitled
The Irresistible Flapper,
in which a wild young thing came to the rescue of her sister, and whose eponymous
heroine bore an unfortunate resemblance to Norma. The second was
The Artistic Temperament,
and from what Charlotte could discern, for the plot was never very clear, it told
the story of a young woman who rejected a rich nobleman, took up the violin, and married
a poor artist.

She was beginning to yawn, the sort of huge yawns that were almost impossible to stifle,
when Mr. Ellis turned to her and, grinning, bent his head to whisper in her ear.

“Have you had enough of this?”

“Yes, please.”

He took her arm as they left, likely only to guide her through the darkened cinema,
although he didn’t let her go as they began the walk back to Huskisson Street.

“I wonder if perhaps we ought to have risked the Philharmonic instead,” he said. “Those
films were absolute nonsense.”

“Perhaps, but I enjoyed them. I enjoyed every minute.”

It was true. The films had been ridiculous, but the newsreels had been interesting,
and their meal and conversation beforehand had been lovely. He was lovely, she realized
suddenly. He was a thoroughly decent, intelligent, morally upstanding, right-minded
man. So why wasn’t her pulse racing? Why were her palms not damp in anticipation of
the moment he would say good night to her?

They walked in silence, her arm tucked in his, the streets so quiet that it seemed
as if Liverpool itself, in its very stillness, were holding its breath. It was late,
of course, and most people were abed by now. She couldn’t recall the last time she
had been out so late during the week.

He walked her to her door and waited as she fished in her handbag for her keys, all
the while saying nothing. Charlotte looked up and held out her hand for him to shake.
He ignored it. Instead he took a step forward and dropped a kiss on her lips, light
and fleeting, his mouth a pleasantly warm contrast to the cool evening air.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “I mean, that is, thank you for tonight. I very much enjoyed
your company, Mr. Ellis.”

“Isn’t it about time you called me John?”

“John, then. Thank you.”

“Thank you, Charlotte.”

“Shall you take the train home? Are they still running?”

“Not at this hour. But I can find a taxi at the station. Remember what I said about
the police striking. It could happen any day now, so do your best to stay alert and
aware.”

“I will. Good night, then.”

“Good night.”

She let herself in, listened for his departing footsteps, switched off the hall light,
and got ready for bed. She slept poorly, waking again and again, her dreams invaded
by another man, the wrong man, a man with a crooked smile and a thousand-yard stare
and a beguiling voice that beckoned her so sweetly, so enticingly, but faded to hollow
echoes whenever she approached.

She woke with a start at dawn, sunlight streaming in through curtains left half open
the night before. It promised to be a beautiful day, but as she lay in bed, thinking
of the hours to come, Charlotte couldn’t shake a feeling of unease, of dread, even.
The air in her room was heavy and close, and it had a scent to it—nothing tangible,
nothing she could attach to a thing or place or even a memory, but it was there, lingering
at the borders of her waking mind.

It smelled like a storm. Just like those summer storms that come on quickly, charge
the air, and leave one feeling headachy and dull. That was it. A storm was coming,
one that had nothing to do with the weather, nothing at all, and she was powerless
to do anything, apart from cower and tremble and wait for it to unleash its fury on
them all.

A
ll day long, mindful of what John had told her the night before, Charlotte was on
her guard, alert to even the slightest noise from the street, the merest hint that
all was not well. At lunchtime she ventured out, walking up to Princes Avenue and
back, but could discern nothing out of the ordinary. August the first, as far as she
could see, was a perfectly ordinary day.

She was at her desk when Gladys came to her door, her face pale with worry.

“I’m sorry to bother you, Miss Brown, but Constable Johnson is here. He asked for
Miss Rathbone, but as she’s away in London I thought . . .”

“Of course. I’ll come straight out.”

Constable Johnson was their local bobby, a fixture of the neighborhood for as long
as anyone could recall, and his homely, earnest face was normally the picture of solid
reassurance. Today he was sweating and anxious, his demeanor so out of sorts that
Charlotte’s heart sank into her boots.

“Good afternoon, Constable Johnson. May I help you? I’m afraid Miss Rathbone is in
London for the next few days.”

“Are you aware of the strike action taking place, Miss Brown?”

“Taking place? So it’s happening?”

“It is. I won’t be leaving my post, but I can’t say the same for many of my fellow
constables. The thing is, Miss Brown . . . it’s spreading. At first it was only a
few districts, but the strikers are going from station to station now. Soon the looting
will start up, as sure as night follows day. I fear it won’t be safe for you and the
other ladies to stay on here.”

“I see.”

“It’d be best if you all went home, and stayed home until it’s blown over. Will you
do that for me? I’ll keep an eye on the premises as best I can.”

“Is there anything we should do before we go? Board up the windows, that sort of thing?”

“I don’t think there’s time for that, but you might want to hide anything valuable.
The typewriters, and the telephone, too, if it can be unhooked from the wall. They’ll
be the first things to go if anyone does break in.”

“Very well. We’ll take care of things here and be gone within the hour.”

“Thank you, Miss Brown.”

“Thank you, Constable. Please have a care for your own safety.”

As soon as he had let himself out, she turned to Gladys and asked her to gather everyone
in the reception area. They hadn’t any time to spare.

“Constable Johnson has just advised me that a large proportion of the city police
has gone on strike. He’s asked us to secure the office and go home. I will telephone
Miss Rathbone in London, to advise her what is happening, but in the meantime
I need you to take the typewriters to the cellar and conceal them as best you can.
If you come across anything else of value, please hide it, too.”

“Is it safe to be out in the streets?” asked Bessie, the youngest of the typists.

“It is, otherwise Constable Johnson would have told us to stay put. But not for long,
I think. Hurry, everyone.”

Knowing time was of the essence, Charlotte went to Miss Rathbone’s office and picked
up the earpiece of the telephone on her employer’s desk.

“Operator.”

“Hello. I’d like to place a call to London, to Whitehall 4—”

“I’m very sorry, madam, but all the lines to London are engaged. Shall I ring back
once a line becomes free?”

She hadn’t the time to wait . . . what should she do? “Are the local exchanges available?”

“Yes, madam. What number would you like?”

“Central 331.”

It took several minutes for her call to be transferred from the
Herald
’s front desk to John’s office, minutes in which she grew steadily shakier and more
anxious.

“John Ellis.”

“Mr. Ellis—John. It’s Charlotte.”

“Tell me you’re not still at work.”

“Only for a few more minutes. Constable Johnson came around and told us we need to
go home. Will we be safe?”

“Yes, but not for long. As soon as the sun goes down the remaining police won’t be
able to keep a lid on this. You need to get home as quick as you can.”

“I will. I wonder—I tried to ring Miss Rathbone at her flat in London, but the lines
are all busy. Could I trouble you to—”

“We’ve a telegraph here at the paper. I’ll send one to her now.”

“Thank you so much.”

“Lock up the office, and be on your way home.”

They said good-bye, but as soon as she replaced the earpiece the telephone trilled
out an incoming call.

“Hello, Miss Eleanor Rathbone’s office. Charlotte Brown speaking.”

“Charlotte, it’s Rosie. You’ve heard?”

“Yes. We’re locking up the office now. What about you?”

“I’ll stay at the hospital. We’ve a set of high gates to keep out any rioters, and
our watchmen will keep us safe. Don’t worry about me.”

“I’ll tell the misses.”

“Thank you. Will you ring up Norma and Meg and make sure they know to go home?”

“I will. I’m not sure if there’s a telephone at Meg’s shop. But it’s not that far
away. I’ll see that she comes home with me.”

“Good. Stay safe and I’ll see you when all of this settles down.”

Charlotte placed one last call, this time to Norma’s workplace.

“Good afternoon, Peterson Brothers Shipping, Miss Barnes speaking.”

“Norma, it’s Charlotte. You’ve heard about the strike.”

“Just now. The men in the warehouse are running around as if they expect the Germans
to invade.”

“How are you getting home? You are leaving work, aren’t you?”

“Yes, yes. Mr. Peterson is giving me a lift back to the house. I’ll be home for supper.
Promise.”

They rang off. Charlotte found the spare key to Miss Rathbone’s office in the top
drawer of the desk, locked the door behind her, and slipped the key back under the
door. It wasn’t much, but it might deter someone from investigating further.

The typewriters had been stowed away: hidden under old crates in the cellar, Mabel
informed her, and the women were all ready to go. Charlotte fetched her handbag, switched
off the last of the lights, and locked up after everyone else had left.

She and Mabel walked north to Upper Parliament, at which point her friend headed east,
to catch the tram to her home in Wavertree, and Charlotte continued along to Lord
Street, where Meg worked.

The proprietor of À La Mode Chapeaux, Mr. Timmins, was standing on the doorstep as
she approached, his demeanor that of a man waiting for the tumbrel. As Charlotte had
never visited the shop before, she introduced herself before asking for Meg.

“The constable who patrols the neighborhood around my office was very insistent that
we all go home, so I thought I would see if you could spare Mrs. Davies.”

“Yes, of course. No one will be buying any hats today. Do you know if all the police
are striking?”

“Not all, but enough to leave us in danger overnight. Are you taking any precautions
with the shop?”

“We’ve locked away all the stock in the attics, and cleared out the workrooms upstairs.”

“Were you going to cover the picture window? One brick and they’d be in.”

“My son is fetching some wood from home. I hope it will be enough, Miss Brown.”

Meg was reluctant to leave, perhaps worrying that Mr. Timmins
would think ill of her, but he was perfectly understanding, promising that he and
his son could manage and that she wasn’t to come back until Monday at the earliest,
and only then if order had been restored.

“What if it all amounts to nothing?” Meg asked as they made their way home.

“Then we’ll all feel a trifle embarrassed for overreacting. But I don’t think it will
blow over. I think the next few days will be very difficult indeed.”

The streets were far from empty, but most of the shops they passed had shut their
doors already. The people they passed all had the same look about them, a strained,
horribly apprehensive expression, as if they were bracing themselves for a blow. News
was spreading, from street to street and block to block, and with it a coverlet of
fear and nervous anticipation was descending upon the city. Anything could happen.
Anything might happen.

Soon they were all, Rosie excepted, gathered in the kitchen at home, hands clutched
around cups of tea. The house was old enough to have interior shutters, the sort that
recessed into the side of the window casings, and those had all been drawn and latched.
The front door was locked and barred. There was nothing to do but wait.

“I ought to have asked before, Janie, but do we have enough food to last through till
Monday?”

“Oh, yes, Miss Brown. I did the marketing this morning, same as always. We might run
low on milk if the milkman doesn’t come, but that’ll be the worst of it.”

“Well done. You see, Miss Mary and Miss Margaret? We are well prepared, and perfectly
safe now that the house is secured.”

“If you say so, Charlotte. But what if mobs start rampaging through the streets?”

“That isn’t going to happen,” Charlotte said firmly. “There will likely be some looting
overnight, but the extent of it depends on how many constables are striking. As we
live in a residential district, I can’t imagine we have anything to fear. We’re taking
precautions, that’s all.”

“It’s so gloomy down here,” Norma complained. “Can’t we go up to the sitting room?
We could open the shutters a little. Just to brighten the room.”

“Best to keep them latched,” Charlotte insisted. “But we should go upstairs. Would
you mind if we switched on the electric lights for a while, Miss Mary?”

“Not at all. A spell in the sitting room will do us all good. You, too, Janie. Come
along now.”

They trooped upstairs, cups of tea in hand, and settled in at their regular places:
the misses in their wing chairs, now adorned with their Blackpool antimacassars, Charlotte
and Norma on the sofa, Meg at the piano, and Janie, who only saw the room when she
came in to clean, perching on a footstool in front of the empty hearth.

Charlotte had her book, the misses had their knitting, Meg was working her way through
the sheet music for “Roses of Picardie,” Janie had some mending, and Norma fidgeted.
Didn’t the girl have any way to pass the time apart from dancing and going to the
pictures?

“Surely you can find something to do,” Charlotte told her. “Why don’t you read one
of your magazines?”

“I couldn’t read, not now. When we’re all about to be murdered in our beds—”

“Rubbish. No one is going to be murdered. Some shops may
be looted, and there may be a few scuffles in the street, but that will be the sum
of it. Do find something to busy yourself, won’t—”

There was a knock at the door, not especially loud or forceful, but Norma seemed to
think it worthy of a bloodcurdling scream.

“Good heavens, Norma! It’s only a knock at the door. You’ll frighten us all to death.”

“Don’t open the door—what if it’s—”

“Do I look like a fool? You wait here.”

Charlotte went into the front hall, placed herself before the door, and waited for
another knock.

“Yes? Who is it?” she called out in her best imitation of Miss Rathbone.

“It’s John Ellis.”

Her hands fumbling with the lock and dead bolt, she opened the door to his familiar,
comforting face. “Come in, come in. Whatever are you doing out?”

“I wanted to make sure you are safe, and that the house is secure.”

“Will you come into the sitting room a moment, just to say hello to the others?”

She introduced him to everyone, explaining that he was the editor of the
Herald
and had stopped by to ensure they were safe. This resulted in raised eyebrows from
Norma and expressions of rapt adoration from the others.

“If you’ll excuse me, ladies, I must go.”

Back in the hall, they pitched their voices low enough that they wouldn’t easily be
overheard.

“Is it bad?” she asked.

“Quite bad in some areas. Down Scottie Road and up in
Everton there’s hardly a shop window that hasn’t been smashed, even though the sun
won’t go down for hours yet. Can you believe it? Shops looted in broad daylight.”

“I’ve shuttered the windows,” she said. “But I’m worried about downstairs. The windows
lock, but that’s all.”

“Are they big enough that a man might crawl through?”

“No, none of them.”

“Then you’ll be fine. Draw the curtains, if they have them, or pin up some cloth to
cover them. Don’t go out tomorrow, not even if all seems well.”

“But surely—”

He took a step toward her, his voice little more than a whisper. “HMS
Valiant
has been called down from Scapa Flow, and will be anchored in the Mersey by tomorrow.
The government is calling in men from the barracks in St. John’s Gardens.”

“How many of the police are striking?”

“Enough. At least half of them.”

“What about the rest of England?”

“A few spots of trouble, here and there, but it’s only in Merseyside that the strike
has spread. No thanks to the antediluvian tactics of the Watch Committee that oversees
the force. That’s what happens when you pay your police officers a third of what most
workingmen make, never give them any time off, and dock their pay for even the slightest
infraction. Did you know that a loose thread on his uniform can cost an officer a
day’s pay? It’s a wonder they haven’t walked off the job long before now.”

“What will happen to the men who’ve gone on strike?”

“They’ve all been sacked.”

“Already?”

“Any man who failed to report for duty today was sacked.
The
Herald
is running advertisements on Monday for new recruits, as are the other papers.”

“It seems terribly harsh. Although it’s hard not to feel a little angry with them
for putting us in such danger.”

“Just as I imagine it’s hard to put your life in danger every day, work ungodly hours,
and accept wages that are barely enough to keep your children in shoes.”

“I didn’t mean . . . that is, I’m not unsympathetic to their cause.”