Lover (14 page)

He's nodded, and we're just about to leave when Ale Mary—I see this out of the corner of my eye—she gets up and starts towards us, none too steady, and she looks at him and looks at me, and then she puts her face right up to his, hiccupping away with her mouth all wet, and she says, ‘He preserveth not the life of the wicked.' Then she falls straight over backwards and cracks her head on the floor.

Of course he's out of there before you can say Jack Robinson and then there's a great to-do, everybody crowding round, ‘You all right, Ma?' and the warden comes in and he's fanning her with his helmet, and the old girls are glaring at me as if I'd given her a fourpenny one. It was queer, though, when I thought about it afterwards—I mean, other times, I'd have been angry: I know I said I'd shut up shop, but that was a good two quid she'd cost me. I wasn't angry, though, I just started shaking and couldn't stop—I don't know why. I think it was the shock of seeing old Mary come up to that young man and talk right into his face like that, really brought it home about Edie, somehow, even worse, like something coming in a big rush and swallowing me up. I suddenly had to get out; even if there were bombs outside I couldn't stay there another minute.

I found myself in the street, leaning against the wall with my teeth chattering. I'd got my hands over my face and then there was this hand on my arm and I jumped a mile. It was the warden, I could see from the gleam of the helmet, right up close to me, and I thought, I can't bear it, I can't have any more trouble, and I said, ‘I'm going, leave me alone.'

He said, ‘No, wait,' and held onto my arm.

I said, ‘What are you doing?'

‘Come on.'

‘You're not taking me down the station! I never touched her. She fell over all by herself!'

‘Who said anything about that? A cup of tea, that's what you need. Come round to the post.'

You could have knocked me down with a feather. I was still pretty wobbly, but he kept his hand on my arm all the way. He had a funny stride, sort of a lurch, and he kept bumping up against me, but there didn't seem anything queer in it, just very determined, the way he marched us along, like he thought I was the one going to tip over, not him.

When we got there, he called out, ‘Lady here had a bit of an upset. Make some room!' and took me right in.

They've got it nice in there, all painted, with a little table with a cloth on and wooden boxes from the market so they can sit down. There were a few men in there lying on the floor, on top of their coats, dead to the world.

The warden said, ‘Don't worry, they've been on duty thirty hours—it'll take a lot more than us to wake them now,' and he was right, we stepped right over them and they didn't move a muscle. ‘We've got all types, here,' he said, and pointed at them in turn. ‘He's a lawyer, he's a taxi driver, that bloke works at the post office, and that one at the end, he's an opera singer!'

The tea was hot and sweet and very welcome. The warden got me sat down, and pulled up a box for himself. I hadn't really got a look at him before, in all the fuss, but in the light I could see he was a big chap. I don't mean fat, more…burly, I suppose you'd call it—middle-aged, black hair with a bit of grey, his nose all flattened like a boxer and cauliflower about the ears, but he'd got nice blue eyes with a smile in them. Then I looked down and saw he'd got one leg stuck out in front of him all awkward. He saw where I was looking, and he said, ‘Got it in the last one. Eighteen, I was. Haven't walked straight since.'

‘Oh… I'm sorry.'

He shrugged. ‘It doesn't give me much bother.'

There was a pause, then he lifted his mug and said, ‘Cheers!' He winked at me. ‘Collapse of stout party, you might say.'

‘You mean…'

‘Old Mary. Don't worry, she'll be right as ninepence.'

By now, the other wardens had cleared off, and it was just the two of us. I said, ‘Well, this is cosy, I must say,' but I was thinking, him being friendly like that, perhaps he wants something for nothing. He started looking a bit shifty, and I thought, aye, aye.

He said, ‘I heard about your pal. Bad business. You want to be careful.' My heart sank then, because I thought, he's after money, the dirty ponce—protection, you might say.

I said, ‘What do you mean, my pal?'

‘Edie Parker.' He was staring down at his gammy leg.

I said, ‘Look, Mr…'

‘Nolan. Harry Nolan.'

‘Mr Nolan—'

‘Harry.'

‘Harry. I don't want any trouble, so if it's all right with you, I'll be on my way. I won't be coming in the shelter again, I'll make other arrangements, and—'

‘Whoa! No need for that. You've as much right to be in the shelter as anyone else, far as I can see.'

Well, now I was pretty sure which way the wind was blowing, so I looked him straight in the eye. ‘Listen,
Mr Nolan
, let's get one thing clear. You're not asking, I'm not offering, and there's an end to it.'

That brought his head up sharp enough. ‘What I said—I didn't mean nothing by it. Not like you thought. Rene… I'm just saying, you be careful.'

‘How do you know my name's Rene?'

He looked surprised. ‘Well…just…one of them in the shelter, it must have been. I've seen you there, before. You're a nice woman, Rene, but there's some wicked people out there, that's all.'

I suddenly remembered the man from the Wheatsheaf calling us all the names as if we were the lowest things in the world.

I said, ‘No, I'm not. I'm not a nice woman, and that's—' The words came out before I could stop them. I felt so muddled and upset, and about ready to cry, if you want the truth.

He said, ‘Here! No need to go upsetting yourself. You're a very nice woman, and don't let anybody tell you different.' He was looking straight at me and his face was so kind, with so much care in it, I thought, he really does think I'm a nice woman, and I know it sounds daft, but that made me want to cry all the more.

I said, ‘Oh, dear, what must you think of me?'

‘I think you've had a nasty turn, is what I think. A bit of kip, and you'll be fine. Now, I'm going to take you back to the shelter, and if those old cats start giving you trouble, you just come to me.'

‘It's very kind of you.'

‘Not at all. Doing my job. Upsy-daisy!' He had to put his hand on the table and push himself up because of his funny leg, and then he held out his elbow for me to put my arm through, very polite, as if he was taking me into dinner at the Dorchester, not back to Soho Square. He didn't talk much on the way back, but when we got to the shelter he said, very quiet, ‘Now, you remember what I said. And don't you go out no more tonight, it's not safe.'

He marched me right in, and no one said a word. Ale Mary wasn't there, and when the warden—Harry—asked Mrs McIver, she told him she'd been taken to the first aid post. Then she pursed her lips and said, ‘Making the most of it, I'm sure,' which made me smile.

I couldn't get to sleep, though—I couldn't get comfortable. And the worst was, every time I closed my eyes I'd get a picture of Edie lying there strangled, right up close to me with her eyes popping out, and then when I did drift off it was only a half sleep, with Edie's and Mary's faces coming in and out, heads on sticks being pushed in front of me, with the teeth come loose so their top sets were moving up and down but the lips weren't going with them, so it was just the teeth and gums by themselves…
horrible
.

I came awake with a jolt, just before midnight—didn't want to go back to sleep again after that, even though I was that tired, I was aching all over. I can just imagine what those old cats would say about Edie: serve her right, she was asking for it—as if anyone could deserve
that
. Like saying they deserve a bomb. Mind you, what me and Lily were saying only this afternoon, Edie was daft, she didn't take enough care…but that was true, what we said: if you don't look out for yourself there's no one else to do it for you, not unless they're after something in return.

Mind you, that warden—Harry… ‘You're a very nice woman, and don't let anybody tell you different.' Fancy saying that! Especially when I'd got him all wrong. Ever so nice of him. And it's worth more when someone like that says it—means something.
You're a very nice woman…
Maybe I'm not so bad, after all.

I
slept through most of Saturday afternoon—glorious, no raids—and felt a whole heap better afterwards. Frank came to see me on Sunday, which I'd been rather dreading, but he did look very good in his battledress, not in the least like a stork, and I felt terrifically proud to be walking down the street with him. Moral snobbism, I suppose, if such a thing exists.

We had tea in the garden with Mums and Minnie, and then took ourselves off for a walk. There was a heaviness about the whole thing, and I couldn't help making comparisons with my airman, which is dreadful. Half listening to Frank, and half my mind on
him
and then remembering how I was thinking about Mr Bridges last time we were together, and hating myself for it. I tried to tell myself afterwards that
that
little episode was because I hadn't known any better, but that's not an excuse. There seem to be different Lucys who take turns in being me and then a big blank space when they all run away and hide, and that's when I find myself looking in the mirror and wondering who's there… Oh, dear. That sounds as if I'm going dotty, doesn't it? But I'm not, just trying to examine the bits of my character that I can understand, or at least want to acknowledge. It's like losing your keys on a dark street and looking for them under a lamppost, not because there's more chance they'll be there than anywhere else, but because that's the only place where there's any light. I tried explaining this to Minnie, without mentioning Mr Bridges or my airman, of course, and she said, ‘Well, you wouldn't have much luck in the blackout.' I don't think she had a clue what I meant! Decided later, as usual, that this sort of self-examination is morbid, and one shouldn't indulge in it.

The walk with Frank felt like an extended goodbye, as if we were both waiting for him to get on a train—which, in a sense, we were—and it was something to be ‘got through' rather than enjoyed. I kept thinking that he might propose, and wondering what on earth I should say if he did. I felt I couldn't let him down because he's going away, but didn't want to make promises to him, either. He kept asking me if I was all right, and I kept saying I was, but it was all very unsatisfactory, and I'm sure he felt that way, too.

It was very awkward at the end, standing in front of the gate and neither of us knowing what to say. Frank kept glancing at the hole in the porch roof and back at me, and I knew he was thinking about me being in danger.

‘I want to stay in London, Frank, I've told you.'

‘I know.'

‘I'll be all right, really. Safe as…'

‘Houses?' We both laughed, but it was uncomfortable, and I couldn't look him in the eye. ‘Lucy, there's not…not
another
reason, is there? Someone else?'

‘No! No…' I could feel myself blushing. ‘There's no-one else.' I thought as I was saying it that it was an honest answer, because there isn't an actual
someone else
, at least, not in a real sense.

‘Lucy?'

A voice in my head screaming,
Don't ask me to marry you!

‘Will you…will you write to me?'

Oh, the relief! ‘Course I will, silly!' I threw my arms round his neck. He disengaged me gently and stepped back, shaking his head. I couldn't make out his expression at all.

‘You're a funny one.'

‘Yes, I suppose I am. It's just…you know. Everything,' I finished, rather lamely.

‘Oh, well.' He glanced at his watch. ‘I'd better be going. Let's say goodbye here, shall we?'

I didn't try to change his mind. ‘Give me a kiss, Frank.' I don't really know why I said that. Wanting to end it on the right note, I suppose, even if it was a fraud.

He didn't kiss me properly, just touched his lips to my cheek.

‘Let me know where you are,' I said, ‘so I can write to you.'

He nodded, and I had the sudden realisation that he wasn't going to—that he'd seen through my reaction, my denial, that I'd given myself away.

‘Oh, Frank, I'm sorry…'

‘Goodbye, Lucy.'

I watched him walk down the road, but he didn't look round. There was something final about it, like a door closing behind me. Not with a bang, just a gentle, firm click.

It would have been easier if he'd been angry. Afterwards, I felt empty and dreadful and wished I'd acted differently, but I couldn't tell if it was because I was sorry for him or because of wanting the feeling of a proper parting. I went and sat by myself in the garden and remembered him pouncing on one of my freckles, saying he'd caught it in the act of coming out. I haven't behaved well, and there's no excuse for it. I'm altogether very miserable and sorry for myself. Minnie, thinking me upset for all the right reasons, didn't ask questions, for which I was grateful, but her kindness made it worse. I'm mean and awful and don't deserve her—or
anyone
.

I thought about pinning the brooch on my frock for work on Monday, but decided to leave it under my pillow. Who knows? Perhaps it will protect our house. I spent the whole journey to the office fretting over Frank, and most of the morning in a turmoil, half the time thinking I never want to see Mr Bridges again, or have anything to do with him, and the other half in a state of fury that he hadn't come down to apologise. I jolly well wasn't going upstairs to look for him, though.