Although, thought Kitty, George would deserve it.
‘Men.’ She said it bitterly, without thinking.
‘Look here, I can’t help being a chap.’ Alec stood up. He seemed to be miles away from her when in fact he only crossed to the mantelpiece. ‘I shouldn’t have come.’
She was sorry. Acutely so. Frightened suddenly that her miserable introspection might have ruined things. Because Alec was the most important thing in Kitty’s life. Putting Caroline to one side – in many ways, Caroline was Kitty, that was her way of mothering – Alec was all that mattered. He was the way. He was the key. He was pain and joy and sensation in a life where Kitty was numb much of the time. ‘Don’t say that!’
‘You know I can’t take these excesses of emotion.’ Alec stared at the other parlour, the one through the looking glass. He didn’t meet his own eyes.
‘Yes you can!’ Kitty leapt up. She sparkled; she could turn that on, an old trick. ‘Because you love me, ya gombeen.’
Alec said nothing, but he turned to her and he smiled and she had schooled herself to feast on such crumbs.
They sat. He said, ‘We have hours together, Kitkat. I let it be known I was off to my lawyer in Felpersham.’
‘You’re sure Gerald hasn’t, you know, pretended to be a spy and followed you?’
He looked at her sideways. ‘The boy’s back at school.’
The delivery was just repressive enough to warn Kitty that Gerald, and his knowledge of their affair, was off limits.
‘It’s grand that we have hours, but we can’t do exactly what we want, now, can we?’ She raised an eyebrow so he would catch her drift. She leaned towards him, let her breasts melt into his arm for emphasis. ‘Caroline’s had her nap, so she’ll be up for hours.’
Alec sighed. There was a growl in it. A thwarted yet happy noise. As if his duty pleased him. He clapped his hands. Caroline looked over. ‘In that case, I think it’s time we all played with dolly.’
They got to know each other a little better, the milk pudding of a little girl and the tall man who visited often and smelled of tobacco.
‘Jesus, don’t look at her fringe,’ begged Kitty. She’d cut it herself, with the kitchen scissors.
‘Nothing can mar Caroline’s beauty.’ She was a dear little thing, very quaint, he said. He no longer seemed afeared of touching her; indeed, he tickled her because it made her laugh until Kitty had to warn him to stop.
‘She’s an expert vomiter, that one,’ she said. ‘Unless you want to explain diced carrot all over your Turnbull and Asser shirt.’
‘Why’d you marry Noel?’ asked Alec over Caroline’s head. She had crawled into his lap as if she owned it, and now sat there contemplating her doll with the contented languor of a despot surveying his gold.
‘Why does anybody marry? I was nuts about him.’
‘Noel? Really?’
‘He was gas when he wanted to be. In the early days he was full of life.’ When he was working hard to win her. When his Englishness was glamorous, and before she’d heard his stories ten times. ‘Remember his parties?’ They both remembered the game of Sardines, their false start. ‘And he was handsome, until…’ Until he wasn’t. Until he looked twenty years older than he was, and his sorrows crowded his face. ‘You must’ve been crazy about Pamela at some point.’ Kitty saw then that Alec never had been. ‘You did love her, though, Alec? For an afternoon or so?’ When he didn’t answer, she said, ‘Sorry. Sorry. Jesus, poor you. Poor Pamela.’
‘Would you love me if I was poor?’
‘I wish you were. Then we could run away together. The poor are free.’ Kitty was troubled by her answer. She knew things Alec didn’t know; that gulf between them frightened her. She knew that love struggles in poverty, that it can be dragged down and drowned by it. She took Bella up from the rug and stroked her the way the cat liked to be stroked, one long sweep from her nose to her tail. ‘Perhaps only animals love us for who we are. The rest of us are, you know, in context to one another.’
‘We are.’ Alec said it wonderingly. He stroked Caroline’s hair in the same fond, unthinking way he handled Hero.
‘Speaking of animals, that Mavis hates me.’
‘Pamela’s dog? Nonsense. Mavis has no opinion on anything, she’s a collection of tumours held together by fur and stupidity.’
‘You’re wrong, she hates me. Whereas Hero,’ said Kitty, ‘approves of me.’
Hero’s tail whacked the floorboards at the mention of his name.
‘His approval is worth more,’ said Alec, who had never met a dog he didn’t trust. ‘I’m not poor, darling,’ he said, as if sorry for some misdemeanour. ‘I can’t just run away with you.’
‘Not now, I know that.’ Kitty dropped the cat, who landed softly and padded away. ‘But one day. Nothing can live without hope, Alec. If you don’t water a garden, it dies.’ She had the sense of going too far. Her head thudded. She had always been terrible at poker.
‘You must have, you should have, hope,’ said Alec. There was a web between them, a tightening of the air. ‘I do want to, Kitty, I do, I just…’ His face struggled. He was helpless; he didn’t look like himself. ‘It’s so hard, darling, all this.’
Caroline pushed in between them. ‘Play!’ she ordered. ‘Alkie play with Caroline.’
SUMMER 1940
Unhappy summer you,
Who do not see
What your yester-summer saw!
THOMAS HARDY
This Summer and Last
JULY
‘Go on up to her room, she’s holding bloomin’ court.’ Agnes straightened her apron and pointed Doris upstairs. ‘As per usual.’
At the turn of the stair Doris met Win Gabriel. The elderly widow, portly and slow, took one step at a time. She was half turned, calling over her shoulder. ‘You’ll keep it to yourself, won’t you, Blanche, about my poor Jonjo? Not a dicky bird.’
‘Win,’ said Doris, in greeting. And to let her know she was there, and had heard.
‘Ooh, Doris!’ Win blushed, her fleshy face purple against the white of her hair. ‘Didn’t see you, love.’
An awkward pas de deux got them past each other.
Whitey White sprawled across Blanche’s bed. Shoes off, he lay full length, head supported on his hand, perfectly at home. When Doris looked askance she saw him wriggle with pleasure.
‘Yes, it’s me!’ he said. ‘Bad penny and all that.’
Doris had never liked him, not since that business of the missing postal order in Christine’s birthday card. ‘Blanche,’ she said. ‘I’m returning this.’ She held up the dinky blue handbag Blanche had lent Christine for the wedding.
‘Leave it on the side somewhere.’ Blanche was careless with possessions; if Doris had owned a satin handbag she would have tended it like a jewel. ‘And don’t look so disapproving, Doris!’
‘Didn’t think I was.’
‘You’ve caught us out. It’s time to confess all. Whitey and I are in love and we’re planning to elope to Gretna Green.’
Whitey laughed more than the joke deserved. He had a big mouth and Doris had to look away; later she’d tell Dan it was like peeking over Cheddar Gorge. ‘You’re a one, Blanche,’ she said.
‘I’m no fool, I know what you’re all saying to each other out there.’ Blanche jerked her head at the window. She straightened her apricot silk bed jacket. ‘You’re all thinking, hmm, what if there’s some truth in the letters after all. What if Alec is a lady’s man and Frank Brown is a German and that poor old cripple is madly in love with Whitey White?’
There was more in this vein. Whitey said little but faithfully guffawed throughout, but Doris soon tired of being their audience.
‘I haven’t seen Nance since the wedding.’ Blanche changed tack. ‘No Sunday drives these days, I’m sad to say.’ Blanche became coy. ‘Tell me, Doris, are you boycotting the shop? My crow sends one of the village children in with a list.’
‘Boycott Frank Brown?’ Doris found it equ
al parts ridiculous and mean-spirited. ‘I’d soon starve if I tried. There’s no other shop for miles. The man’s a patriot.’
Whitey found his voice. ‘Can’t trust a Nazi.’
‘He’s not a Nazi,’ sighed Doris. ‘He’s just Frank.’ She saw a letter lying beside the postman. ‘I’m going that way. Want me to deliver it?’
‘If you like.’
* * *
After clearing her throat, Doris read the letter to Connie at a kitchen table that was home to a lump of meat Doris couldn’t identify, a pipe, a rusting cheese grater and Wizbang. ‘He likes it there,’ was Connie’s only comment when Doris saw the mongrel luxuriating.
‘Dear Mum,’ read Doris. ‘Here I am laid up like an old feller and thinking of you there at home. I bet you are busy what with the war and everything else. They wheel us out into the sunshine and I think of Ambridge and all the colours in summer. The gardeners here work hard but it’s nothing compared to Miss Gilpin’s hollyhocks. Don’t you worry about me, Mum, although I know I am wasting my breath. I’m not as pretty as I was but that doesn’t matter. As the doc joked this morning it’s a good thing I’m not a model. I have a face only a mother could love as they say but I am alive and there are many as aren’t. I do miss my pals from labour division. They were good sorts. A right laugh. There was one chap from Glasgow and I couldn’t understand a bleeding word but he could hold a tune and he was one of the first to go and so I think about him a lot. I keep cheerful and the nurses are nice. They have some right characters on their hands I can tell you but I am always respectful. Is Stacey keeping well? Clip her nails now and then. Tell Dad he’ll have me to answer to if there’s any funny business while I’m gone. At night I imagine I am at home with you and the little ones. Take care and don’t worry. Your loving Cliff.’
Folding the letter carefully back into its creases, Doris gave Connie time to fold herself back into her own creases. ‘He sounds chipper.’
‘How bad is his face?’ Connie asked as if Doris might have an answer. ‘D’you think he’s ruined? If he was dying, would he say?’ Her fingers worried their way up and down Wizbang’s knobbly backbone. ‘It’s not decent. It’s not right.’
Doris silently agreed. There, in that cave of a kitchen, she felt at ease; Connie’s hopeless reaction to the war was sensible, logical. Connie was flattened by it. Doris envied her ability to give in. The cardigan Connie wore was shiny with dirt. ‘Sounds to me like he’s getting better, Connie. He’s got the best care and—’
‘I want to see him.’ Connie’s fingers tightened on Wizbang, and the dog jumped down from the table with an aggrieved whimper. ‘I just want to lay eyes on him. But Stan…’ Connie let out a little sigh. She looked proud as she said, ‘He can’t do without me, see.’
‘I’ll go and see Cliff for you,’ said Doris. The decision made itself. Before Doris could reconsider, it had pulled on its boots and put up its hand. Close behind the decision came the hundred reasons why Doris should have stayed schtum. Wartime travel was arduous, she was needed at home, the Horrobins were barren people to have dealings with.
‘What? Why?’ Connie’s amazement didn’t last, melting immediately to a gruff gratitude. ‘Well, if you want to, I can’t stop you, I suppose.’ She was weeping and not bothering to wipe her face. As if tears were just weather. ‘Stacey’ll be chuffed, won’t you, Stace?’
Cliff’s dog didn’t even turn at the sound of her name. She sat watching the wall.
‘Stan would go,’ said Connie. ‘He loves his boy. Yes, he’d go, I know he would. But he’s kept so busy.’ As if her visitor had disputed that, she said sharply, ‘He’s a good man, Doris. And clever. We’re going to be rolling in money soon. He’s come up with this plan, you see. Stan’s got it all up there.’ She tapped her head and some microscopic winged thing flew out of her hair. ‘He’ll show you all.’
Noise in the yard announced the evacuees. John skidded to a halt in front of Doris.
‘Hello, lady,’ said the older brother. He had the brutal haircut of all the Horrobin males.
Giving them a fleet, discreet once-over – cleanish clothes, no bruises, no weight loss – Doris was struck by how very small John was. Too small, she felt, to be away from home. ‘Do you miss your mum, John?’ she asked.
‘He don’t,’ said Billy. He stood a little in front of John, one puny protective shoulder stuck out.
John said, ‘We haven’t been to our secret place in the woods, honest.’
Doris smiled.
Vic Horrobin, hyena-sleek, came in with a brace of furry somethings behind his back. ‘You be careful, boys. All the dead folk come out of their graves at night and dance in them woods.’
‘None of that, thank you,’ said Doris. She wanted to take Billy and John home. She wanted to take everyone home. She wanted to feed Stacey and liberate Connie and get Vic to stand up straight.
She just didn’t have the time.
* * *
It was, apparently, the Battle of Britain.
Not for Britain; Pamela wondered at the grammar.
He was quixotic, that Hitler. Changing tack, never pressing his advantage. Pamela had, disloyally, worried that Britain was done for after Dunkirk, but there had been no decisive swoop, no cuff of England’s ear. Now the danger had lifted from the sea and the soil, and taken to the air.
The aerial dogfights didn’t take place in Pamela’s patch of sky. Lower Loxley was as tranquil as ever.
In fact, it was sedated. The heat locked everything in place. Pamela herself was shackled to her desk. As usual. Behind her she heard the rustle of The Times as Alec read. She could feel him thinking, those male cogs whirring, rather slowly.
She was riled. He had belittled her – a talent of his, these days – by being stingy with details after a telephone call from Ronald Furneaux. She’d asked for titbits about the war; he’d refused to share.
‘You can tell me, Alec,’ she’d said, narrowing her already narrow eyes. ‘I’m not some village woman.’
No dice. He’d taken refuge in The Times. She knew he knew she was gunning for a row. The heat pressed down on Ambridge like a lid. They waited, all of them, for news of the sky battle, and for the next poison-pen letter. Pamela wasn’t sure which felt more real; life was about the tiny details, after all. She didn’t personally know any RAF fliers, but she knew everyone in the letters’ firing line.
She signed a cheque with an energetic flourish.
Alec was grateful he had his back to her. They were bookends, she at the desk in the window, he in his favoured armchair. He risked a touch of levity. ‘This’ll amuse you. Ronald told me about London Zoo. Would you believe they’ve put down the poisonous snakes in case the Luftwaffe scores a direct hit and the king cobras slither off into Regent’s Park.’
Another piece of crisp paper extracted from a leather box. ‘Plenty of snakes right here at home.’
‘Hmm. Well. Yes.’
‘Any day now another message in that deplorable handwriting will land. They’re laughing at us all, whoever they are.’
‘We’re on their tail,’ said Alec. ‘Dan’s a terrier.’
‘Good God, Alec, you and Dan Archer have no idea who it is. You’re not Sherlock Holmes and Watson.’
Alec continued mild; Pamela was a tyre fire in this mood. He must resist the urge to throw gasoline. ‘We have plans. All top secret, of course.’
‘Be sure to write up your escapades for the Boy’s Own Paper. At least we Pargetters have had our turn. The next one can’t hurt us.’
‘Whatever hurts the village hurts Lower Loxley.’
‘Thank you for the sanctimony, Alec. It always helps.’ There was a pause filled only by Mavis’s breakneck panting from her post at Pamela’s feet. ‘Gerald will be home this weekend. Could you try and make some time for him?’
‘The boy wants nothing to do with me. Let him be.’ Alec shook the paper out and folded it. Pamela would make pawns of him and Gerald if he let her, moving them about the chessboar
d as her fancy dictated. And occasionally, the gormless Mavis would reach out and swipe the board with her paw.
Pamela said, ‘And the other matter? Is there any progress?’
‘Things are in hand.’
‘One can’t wait for ever. There are limits.’
‘Yes. You’re being very patient.’
‘Oh, I am not.’
He heard a tapping. He recognized it. Pamela’s thin gold pen drumming on the blotter.
She said, ‘I gave up London for you.’
‘Pamela…’
‘I had offers. Better offers.’
Alec closed his eyes. If she reeled off the list of names now he would… well, clearly he wouldn’t do a single thing. He chanted in his head. Reggie Wilson. Stephen Carlile. Dickie Carroll. Pamela’s Ghosts of Romance Past.
‘I waited for you then, Alec. I’m rather tired of waiting.’
His stomach burned. A fire had taken hold of him. He’d felt like this in France in the last big stupid war. He swallowed. It was time. She was pushing him around the chequered board. ‘Look, Pamela, if you really want to know, I—’
‘You’ve never been much of a husband, and now you’re not much of a father.’
It was a slap. Alec felt its sting. He sensed she had turned in her seat. She sounded chastened – by her standards – when she said, in a softer voice, ‘Alec, I didn’t mean…’
He stood up. Turned to face her. His grasp on The Times was clammy. Mavis stopped panting, her hinged jaw snapping shut as she watched. ‘I know what you meant, Pamela. I have to agree.’ His mouth worked. The words would come, surely. He hadn’t planned for this to happen today but he felt himself scream go, go, go! Make a break for it. Tell her the truth, all of it. The door was only feet away. In the style of the Boy’s Own, with one bound he could be free, and in Noon Cottage.
Pamela stood too. Smartly. Sharply. ‘I can see you’re about to be foolish, and I won’t stand for it.’ She held up a forefinger as he went to speak. ‘No! Thank heavens one of us has backbone. Even if you aren’t doing your bit for your country I intend to make sure you do your bit for your family.’
The Archers Page 18