Lover (19 page)

I realised, even as I was doing it, that it was silly and pointless, and I'd probably end up getting lost, but I carried on stumbling in what I hoped was the right direction as if something was impelling me—as if my torch wasn't in my hand at all, but the little beam was coming from somewhere else, to guide me. Very strange. Managed to get across Oxford Street and into Soho. Remembering the prostitute who'd been murdered made me nervous, because you do hear these terrible stories about gangs and white slavers and the like. I know it's hardly likely to happen to me, but all the same, I didn't feel very comfortable— kept thinking that some horrible man was going to reach out of the darkness to grab me and bundle me through a doorway or something, and every time someone brushed past me, I imagined I could feel a hand reaching out for my neck. After about five minutes I was starting to wish I'd just gone down Regent Street, and I just about got the fright of my life when someone ran straight into me and I slipped off the curb and sat down hard on my bottom, right in the road. I managed to put my hand on my torch, which by some miracle was still working, and the first thing I saw was a swaying tripod of legs—frayed carpet slippers, varicose veins thick as creepers that seemed to be moving in the torchlight, twisting their way up columns of grey, puckered flesh, and in the centre, the solidness of a man's trouser and shoe.

My first thought was—idiotically—for the man's other leg, but a phlegmy whinnying noise from somewhere above my head made me jump, and a woman's voice cackled, ‘The foolish virgins said to the wise, give us your oil, for our lamps are gone out.'

A torch shone into my face, and a man said, ‘Rene! Let me give you a hand.'

‘Thank you, but you're mistaken. I'm not Rene.'

‘Oh no, so you aren't. Sorry, Miss, my mistake. It was your coat, Miss, made me think I knew you. Are you all right down there?'

‘I think so. I must have tripped.'

‘Easy to do in the blackout. Let me help you up.'

‘…but the wise virgins said no—'

‘That's enough sermonising, Ma. Here, Miss, let's get you upright.' As he bent down to help me up his other knee came into view, which was quite a relief. He was a big man with a nice, kind face. All the time, the woman droned in the background, ‘…they said, not likely. That's what they said. Wouldn't let them have it.'

‘Come on, Ma. Don't you worry about her, Miss. Now then, if you're fit, I'd best get you both round to the shelter. You shouldn't be out here, it's not safe.'

‘Yes, thank you.'

‘Don't mention it. You just lean up here and get your breath back for a minute, and then we'll make tracks.'

The old woman was still bawling away, ‘He said to them, He said, You know not the day nor the hour! That's what He said…'

‘I'll give you the day and the hour in a minute, Ma. Now come on! Don't you worry, Miss,' he said to me, ‘She's had a drop too much, that's all.' He winked. ‘It wouldn't be the first time, either.'

It was nothing to be afraid of, but it took the wind out of my sails, and I began to wish I'd never embarked on such a stupid venture in the first place. My leg was hurting, and when I put my hand down and touched my knee, I realised I'd cut myself. I limped along after the warden until we came to a shelter, which I was pretty sure was the same one I'd been to before, and I sat down to inspect the damage. The warden got the old woman settled in the corner, where she went straight to sleep. ‘There you are,' he said to me, ‘she won't give you any more trouble.'

‘It's very kind of you.'

‘Not at all, Miss. Nolan's my name. Harry Nolan. I'm the warden here. I've not seen you before—not local, are you?'

‘No, I was just on my way home.'

‘Pardon my saying, but you want to be careful, miss, walking round here. You'll have a sit-down before you go off home, won't you? I'll take you over to Mrs McIver, she'll see you're all right.'

‘Thank you.'

He ushered me across the shelter to an elderly lady, who was bent almost double over a newspaper, trying to make out the crossword. He leaned over and spoke to her, then waved at me and left. I didn't think she'd heard him, but she must have, because I was dabbing at my knee with my handkerchief when she said, ‘You need a plaster for that.'

I looked up, and she was peering at me, her head twisted on one side. It reminded me of Dennis, the tortoise we had until last year. Minnie always said the shock of being at war must have killed him, because he hibernated for the winter and never woke up again.

‘You look in there.' She jabbed a finger at a carpet bag by her feet. I hesitated, because it seemed rude, but she said, ‘It's all in there. Go on.'

She didn't seem to mind me rooting around amongst her things, just went back to her crossword. She was wearing an ancient horror of a hat with a brim, and flowers, and every so often she'd put her hand up, tug a stub of pencil out of it, lick the end, scribble down a clue, and jab the pencil home, all without straightening her back.

I found a bundle of first aid things, dabbed the cut with some iodine and stuck a plaster over it. My stockings were laddered, as I'd feared, but not too badly to mend. I tidied my hair, which improved things a bit, and brushed the worst of the grit off my skirt and coat. Looking down at the blue wool, I remembered the warden saying, ‘It was your coat, Miss, made me think I knew you,' and I thought of the prostitute I'd seen in the shelter who was wearing the same model. She'd looked a bit like me, too. I couldn't imagine that such a nice man would know her in her…well, let's say her
working life
, so decided immediately that it must be because she's a regular in the shelter. Anything else would be unthinkable! But slightly disturbing to think I could be mistaken for a woman of that sort, even for a moment—not nice at all.

The elderly lady stowed away her pencil with an air of finality and picked up an alarm clock from the bench beside her. She shook it, peered at it, sniffed loudly, rolled up her newspaper, and turned to me. ‘You waiting for someone, dear?'

I shook my head. It was daft, really, because all the time, sitting there, I kept expecting
him
to come in—no earthly reason why he should but… Oh, I don't know. Stupid.

‘I've seen you before,' she said.

‘Have you?'

‘Yes, with a young man. I'm sure it was you. Services, he was. That was it. Air force. Yes,' she said. ‘I remember. Handsome.'

I could feel myself blushing. ‘He's not…'

‘Not what? Not your brother, at any rate,' she said, sharply. ‘Meeting him, are you?'

I shook my head. ‘Really. I was just seeing someone—well, a man, and we argued, and I came this way, and…' I launched into an account of what had happened—no mention of
him
, of course—wondering why on earth I felt the need to explain to a complete stranger, and whether she'd think me mad for telling her, but she didn't seem to. I said, ‘That lady over there. She was shouting at me.'

‘Oh,' she said. ‘Mary. The Bible, was it?'

‘I think so. Does she…?'

‘Like a drop?' She laughed. ‘More than a drop, dear, but she's harmless enough. You don't want to take any notice.' She leaned over. ‘Nuns,' she whispered.

‘I beg your pardon?'

‘Educated by nuns. Then they wouldn't let her join. Took it badly. Doo-lally.' She tapped her forehead, then peered at me, more like Dennis the tortoise than ever, and said, ‘That young man. The handsome one. He's the one you favour, isn't he?'

‘Well, I don't know. I…' The whole thing suddenly seemed farcical, and I felt such a fool I didn't know where to look.

‘You be careful, dear. That's all. Don't go looking for trouble. Now then. You'd best be off home.'

‘Yes. Yes, I suppose I had. Thank you.'

‘Don't mention it, dear. McIver's the name.'

‘Lucy. Armitage.'

‘Lucy, is it? Well, good night, dear, and good luck.'

I journeyed home in a sort of daze and ate sandwiches with Minnie under the kitchen table. No tea, because there's only enough left for tomorrow morning. Mums was very shirty about this, according to Minnie; apparently it's our fault for making tea in the middle of the night and using up the ration. I thought of pointing out that we're not the ones here all day drinking cups of tea, but felt too preoccupied to get indignant about it.

I tossed and turned all night—planes at one, then again about four. The All-Clear went at five, so I went upstairs to bed. I felt tired and irritable, but couldn't settle. Kept thinking how pathetically transparent I must be if a complete stranger could see through me so easily…as I saw through Mr. Bridges… Oh, dear. Well, that'll teach me. So much for turning over a new leaf. Drifted off to sleep after that.

T
ed Gerrity woke up with a bastard behind the eyes. His head felt as heavy as a sandbag and ready to burst, and even the action of turning it sideways on the pillow produced such an intense wave of nausea that he thrust his upper body forward to hang over the edge of the bed. Lily'd make a fuss if it got on the sheets. He waited, eyes closed, for the heave, but nothing happened. After a few minutes, he opened his eyes. Even that was painful, although the blackouts kept the room mercifully dim. He concentrated on the floor beside the bed, trying to get it into focus. Pair of scissors down there? He leaned down further and picked them up, but the movement brought another upsurge, so he let them fall, wincing as the
thunk!
hit his cortex, and closed his eyes again.

Lily's curling tongs. Fancy leaving them on the floor like that, where anyone could trip over them. Slowly, he became aware of the other parts of his body. He felt stale, constricted, and…damp. Oh, no. Lily really would raise hell about that, if he'd pissed himself again. He was fully clothed, as well. Shoes, and all. Must have been quite a night, he thought, blearily, feeling too grim even for self-disgust. He fumbled with the top button of his trousers until it came undone—that was better—and lay still again, trying to summon up the resolve to get off the bed and sort himself out. How had he got home, anyway? Had Lily been there? Surely not, or she'd have got his clothes off. It wasn't like her to go to the shelter without him, and anyway, last night hadn't been too bad, had it? Unless he'd slept through the lot. Not wanting to turn his head again, Ted put out a hand and felt towards the middle of the bed. His fingers stubbed against the flesh above someone's elbow—Lily's presumably—and he drew his hand back, not wanting to wake her. He couldn't face up to a row, not now. Perhaps they'd had one last night, and that was why she hadn't undressed him. If they had, though, he couldn't remember a thing about it. Best not let on about that, he thought. It would only start her off again.

What time was it, anyway? Perhaps if he made some tea… What had happened last night? Oh, yes. Some of it, anyway—the early part. The new girl. Well, maybe. Said she was terrified over that business with Edie Parker and pretty much told him straight out that if he wanted to come and live with her… Nice flat. Nice
girl
. Younger than Lily, too. Could be the start of something; bound to be more girls getting nervous, wanting protection.

Nah. Nice idea, but Lily'd never stand for it. Jealous. As long as the girl…what was it? Marie, that's right. As long as Marie didn't tell her, he could forget all about it. But there was always the risk. She might get nasty, if… He'd been a fool to go back with her, but you don't turn it down when it's offered, do you? Besides, Marie might not be so…being younger, and all that. Might be flighty, or lazy. One thing about Lily, she was good, always out bringing in the money. She could do with cleaning up a bit, mind you—the place was a mess. He'd have to have a word with her about that. Not yet, though: Lily had quite a temper on her, and she'd been a bit off with him lately, with the raids getting on her nerves, and then Edie. And then there was the little matter of the call-up. She didn't know he hadn't attended the medical board. He'd heard of a man—an invalid—who'd go in your place if you paid him, but it was seventy pounds, and he'd have a job getting that out of Lily. Maybe she'd got something saved, money he didn't know about, but all the same… She'd been all for it at the beginning. It was all right for her, she wasn't the one going off to get killed, was she? But she'd changed her tune pretty quick after Edie, so perhaps he could ask her. She might cough for it, if he put it like that.

Tea first, Ted thought. Got to keep her sweet. He sat up and swung his feet carefully over the side of the bed. Head thudding, he stumbled across the room to the kitchenette and reached across the sink to open the blackout curtains. He rubbed the back of his neck, wincing at the light, then turned to squint at the clock on the mantelpiece: twelve noon. Blimey. But he'd got in late, hadn't he? Early, rather. He reached out a hand and groped behind the clock—Lily usually tucked the money back there so he could take what he needed. Nothing. Must have forgotten. Or perhaps she'd got angry when he hadn't come home, and taken it back again.

He searched his pockets for cigarettes, found nothing, and looked round for Lily's handbag. Not there. He filled the kettle, lit the gas, and called through the doorway, ‘Hey, Lily!'

Nothing. Asleep or sulking? Still, he thought, she never stays angry for long. Loves me, doesn't she?

‘Where's your bag, Lil?'

He glanced across to the bed. Pillow over her head. All he could see was a few tendrils of dark brown hair curling out at the side. Sulking, by the look of it. Or perhaps she'd had a few as well. That wasn't like Lily, not when she was working, but then she'd not been herself since poor old Edie… Looked a bit queer lying there with the eiderdown and blanket pulled back and her vest rolled up over her tits. He moved nearer to cover her up and find her bag while he was at it. Maybe he'd nip out and get himself a pick-me-up. Hair of the dog.