Lover (26 page)

‘The dog. Well, that's something, isn't it? The dog.'

‘Something. I'd go home if I were you, miss. You look all in. Take these with you.' He pressed the cigarettes into my hand. ‘Like I said, I've got plenty.'

I was turning to go when this little woman scuttled past me and started scrabbling at the debris like a dog after a bone. The rescue man said, ‘Hold on, missus, what are you up to?'

She didn't seem to hear, so he went and tapped her on the shoulder, and when she stood up, I realised she was one of Mr Mitten's regulars, a neighbour of Annie's.

‘It's my husband's cigarettes,' she said. ‘His nerves are that bad, he can't do without. He's an invalid and he can't leave the house. I've been coming here for years.'

I said, ‘So have I, but it makes no odds with the shop gone, does it?'

The rescue man said, ‘You'd best take these, then,' and brought a packet out of his jacket.

She looked at them suspiciously for a moment, then snatched them out of his hand. She looked at me and sniffed again. ‘It's all on account, you know,' and then she shot off, muttering, ‘We're good customers…'

The rescue man rolled his eyes at me. I said, ‘Ledbetter, her name is. Friend of mine lives in the flat above. She says the husband's not an invalid at all—he's too fat, that's his problem. Never goes out.'

‘Let's hope he don't get bombed, then. I can do without lugging fat people—my back's playing me up something chronic as it is.'

I started to walk back. I thought, I'll have to find another place to buy my cigs, now, too. And Mrs Mitten, poor woman… have to tell Lily—
No
. Lily's not here any more. Mr Mitten wouldn't come to the shelter, because of his stock. He was afraid the place'd be robbed if he was away. Funny to think I won't see him again. It's like buildings—here one minute, gone the next, except they can't have had time to go away, it happens so quick. In your mind, it's the same street, with the dead people still walking about, so you feel you might walk round a corner and see them, like I did last night with Lily.

A few windows were out in Frith Street, but my flat was still in one piece, which is something, at any rate. Fairly dragged myself up the stairs. I was putting things away—I keep the blanket and whatnot ready in a pile by the door—when I noticed my head felt itchy, so I undid my hair and brushed it out. Well, you never know what you might pick up in those places, but there was nothing that I could see. Not that I could see much with the great clouds of dust coming out of it. I'd like to wash it, but I can't make one basin of water do for hair and smalls and stockings, so it'll just have to wait. Thought I'd better look in on Dora when I've done the washing, make sure my Tommy's all right. Just sit down and close my eyes for ten minutes, first…get the shoes off… Ooooh, that's good. Then I'll have a cup of tea…

W
hat a week! Ab-so-lutely fed up to the back teeth with everything, including myself. The only bright spot on the horizon was a letter saying they've accepted my offer of help on the mobile canteens and will I start next Friday, but apart from that, I've spent the last week listless, irritable, and jolly sick of creeping around at work trying to avoid Mr Bridges. I've been telling myself it's my own fault, but it doesn't help much, and Frank's been popping into my mind every so often—he just seems to wash up there on a tide of guilt. I should like to attach some other emotion to him, but I can't.

I came into work yesterday morning and found a packet on my desk, wrapped in brown paper. Whisked it into my handbag so that the others shouldn't see, and then excused myself to spend a penny so that I could open it in private. It was twenty Players, with a scribbled note: ‘I'm sorry' signed Donald Bridges. It's impossible to think of smoking them— they'd choke me. I should like to throw them away if it wasn't so wasteful. I decided to give them to Mums as a ‘make up' present. She's been as infuriating as ever; seems to see bad in everyone, especially me.

She's been going on and on about the Anderson shelter, insisting that if we stay in the house we'll be buried alive, crushed, suffocated, decapitated and heaven knows what else. The awful thing is, I've imagined all these things myself, and hearing them spoken aloud does
not
make things any better. I tried to make her understand that she's in the safest possible place, under the stairs, but it makes no difference. A couple of days ago I just snapped, and found myself shouting, ‘Oh, shut up, you get on my nerves!' I apologised afterwards, but of course the damage was done.

But it wasn't only that. Last night, she was awful to Dad. He'd come in with Mr Fenner, and they were in the kitchen, deep in questions of cricket and football, and Minnie and I were making supper. We thought it would be nice to ask Mr Fenner to stay, because he's a widower and doesn't get much chance of a home-cooked meal, and because it's nice for Dad to have some male company. When I suggested it, Dad looked pleased as Punch, but then Mums rushed in, obviously furious about the amount of tea they'd consumed, and made it very clear to Mr Fenner that he wasn't
at all
welcome. Dad was very quiet after that, but I was boiling inside—how dare she begrudge him a bit of fun? And as for speaking to Mr Fenner like that… I was angry with Dad, too, for sitting there and saying nothing, when it's
his
house. I whirled about the kitchen, slamming things all over the place, ignoring Mums completely and not bothering to conceal my disgust for the whole thing. Quite by mistake I knocked into Minnie—she was carrying an egg and dropped it, and Mums instantly screeched, ‘Now look what you've done! Can't you be more careful? You never think of anyone but yourself!' Mayhem. Minnie started crying, although none of it was directed at her, and Mums and I made for the cloth at the same time, ‘For heaven's sake, I'll do it!'

‘No, let me, give it here, you're all thumbs—'

‘I've said I'll do it!' I got a firm purchase on the cloth and tugged it away from her. During all this chaos, Dad sat looking down at the table and didn't say a word, and I caught sight of his face, which looked so weary that I was instantly sorry and felt very ashamed of myself. It must be dreadful for him, being surrounded by this awful gaggle of women who are constantly at each other's throats or in hysterics.

Supper was conducted in complete, but very loaded silence, apart from Minnie's sniffing. The siren went halfway through and we took our plates and retreated: Mums and Minnie under the stairs; Dad and I under the table. My anger, apart from a niggling indignation that none of it was my fault, had left me, and I felt about an inch high and couldn't bring myself to look at him or say anything. Couldn't eat anything, either, but pushed the food around my plate, wondering how to get rid of it without anyone noticing.

I saw, out of the corner of my eye, that Dad had finished his meal and was looking at me.

‘Lucy?'

‘What?' I could hear how ungracious this sounded, but couldn't help it.

‘I know it's not much fun for you youngsters, with all this, but try not to be too hard on your mother. She can't help it. She worries about you, you know.'

‘But she's
impossible
! What she said to Mr Fenner, when she could see you were having a perfectly nice time, and it wouldn't have hurt to—'

‘I know, Lucy. But you've got to make allowances. She's not herself these days.'

‘But that doesn't give her the right to speak to people—'

‘It doesn't give you the right, either. She was very upset last night…it won't do.'

‘No. I'm sorry.'

‘I'm glad to hear it. Just don't do it again, that's all. Now…' he pointed to my plate. ‘Are you going to eat that, young lady?'

‘I don't think so. I'm not very hungry.'

‘Well, hand it over. Can't have it going to waste.'

‘Thanks, Dad.'

‘Think nothing of it.' He finished my supper, then said, ‘Now, you stay put here, and I'll clear the dishes.'

I sat under the table watching his feet and legs move about, and had the odd thought that this is the view a dog would see all the time. ‘Dad?'

‘Yes?'

‘Did you know that Mrs Grout reckons her dog can tell the difference between our planes and theirs?'

‘What, old Blackie? Perhaps he ought to join the ARP. Mind you, we'd have a job finding him a tin hat… Does that little accident mean we're out of eggs?'

‘I'm afraid it does.'

‘Eggless in Gaza.'

‘
Da-ad
! That's awful.'

‘Eggless in Clapham, then.'

‘That's even worse.'

He stuck his head under the table and grinned at me. ‘I thought it was one of my better efforts. I'm just going to check on the stirrup pump. You'll be all right here, won't you? It's pretty quiet.'

‘I'm fine, Dad. Honestly.'

‘Good.' He reached awkwardly under the table and gave my shoulder a pat.

It suddenly occurred to me that when Dad was my age, he was in the trenches. That must have been terrible—I've never heard him talk about it, ever. The one time I asked him, all he said was, ‘Some things are best forgotten.' I remember him sighing when we heard Chamberlain on the wireless, saying we were at war. I suppose it must have seemed that everything they'd been through then was for nothing. Mums was in the armchair opposite, crying and peeling potatoes at the same time, and afterwards, we all stood up, very self-conscious, staring down at the rug while they played the National Anthem, Mums still clutching her basin of spuds.

To be honest, I didn't really know how to react to the announcement. I remember watching Dad to see how he was taking it. He seemed so weary and disappointed. I suppose I was…what? Afraid? Yes, a bit. Excited…yes…and curious about what would happen. That seems a lifetime ago, but it's barely more than a year. Dad always looks worn out, nowadays, yet he's so kind and forgiving. Like Minnie. It's a shocking realisation that in this respect, at least, I am more like Mums—a horrible thought, but probably a true one. Perhaps that's why Dad, without saying much, seems to understand me so well: he's had a lot of practice, poor man. And I think he does love Mums. She doesn't strike me as being the lovable type—perhaps I'm not, either. Or maybe Dad sees something else there, that we—or at least,
I
—don't. In my room this morning, getting dressed, I took the green brooch from under the pillow and put it in my bag. Silly, perhaps, but it reassured me a little, and anything's better than nothing.

I came downstairs in the morning to find that the water was off, again. Had to use the contents of Mums's hot water bottle to make our tea. This won full marks for initiative from Dad, and pursed lips from Mums—through which she drank two cups. Decided it was time to present my peace offering of cigarettes, and did so, to be met with a suspicious look, and asked if I'd got them on the black market! I could feel Dad's eyes boring into the back of my head, so bit back a sarcastic retort and exited, hurriedly, to work.

I spent four hours in the shelter today, at Miss Henderson's insistence, and got very little done, but Mr Bridges didn't seem to be about, thank goodness. In any case, when it comes to running errands upstairs, Vi and Phyll are only too happy to oblige, which lets me off the hook. I could feel Miss H's eyes on me all the time, but no one else seemed to notice, so perhaps it is only imagination. Found myself looking at the brooch in my handbag several times for comfort. Came out later with a terrible headache—it's stuffy enough in there and people will insist on smoking, even though they aren't supposed to.

I was exhausted by the end of the day, but didn't want to go home. Two stations were closed and most of the streets around roped off and deserted. Precious few buses, and all bursting with people, with a lot more milling about, waiting. I felt very tired and gloomy, and started to wonder if perhaps I've got a cold coming. If so, I probably caught it from Miss Henderson sitting beside me in the shelter, because she's got an absolute beast—nose bright red and streaming, and eyes smaller and more gimlet-like than ever.

The thought of another evening listening to Mums's endless complaints was more than I could bear, and the sheer effort of getting home suddenly seemed too much. I did wonder, afterwards, if I'd already made the decision to go to Soho before I'd seen the transport situation. I'm not sure, but I can't deny it might have been at the back of my mind. I found myself taking the brooch out of my handbag and holding it in my hand like a talisman, and then, after a while, I started to walk.

I had a strangely disembodied feeling, probably a consequence of having cut breakfast and picked at lunch. People were jostling to get home, all walking very fast with their heads down. I noticed how shabby it all looks—windows everywhere have been replaced with cardboard, and the whole place is grimier than ever. I saw peculiar reflections in broken panes— myself split into halves, or cracked down the middle, or flowing from side to side like a pantomime genie appearing from a bottle.

There were a lot of women standing on street corners and in doorways, and odd splashes of bright colour, dulling as the blackouts started to go up and the dusk greyed everything. The sharp edges of the buildings began to blur. It looked nicer like that, less harsh, as everything seemed to soften and settle. A woman bumped into me—‘Look where you're going, dear!'—our eyes met, and, just for a moment, I thought I knew her, and then I remembered: it was the woman from the shelter. The prostitute. The one who looks like me. I had an odd, fleeting impulse to speak to her—I couldn't think why, or what I would say if I did speak—but then she walked past me.