Survivor

by Lesley Pearse

  ‘I can see a certain romance in it,’ she’d said thoughtfully. ‘But she isn’t going to like living in a couple of rooms in a rough area. I like my comfort too much to be happy in squalor, even if I did adore the man.’

  Rose might be a bit of a snob, but she had a point. Mariette had grown used to the luxury of her godfather’s home, and she knew this was how she wanted to live for ever. She was fairly certain Morgan would never be able to offer her that.

  Was it enough to have a man who made her pulse race? Wouldn’t it be better to write back to Morgan and offer up some excuse, then try to forget him?

  And yet, on Saturday afternoon, Mariette was in Trafalgar Square in her prettiest floral dress and a white hat. It was a beautiful day, and the small inner voice that urged her to be sensible and to think of her future had been overcome by her desire to be in Morgan’s arms again.

  She was watching a woman feeding the pigeons, with the birds perched on her shoulders, arms and even her head, when Morgan came up behind her and put one hand on her shoulder, making her jump.

  ‘Hello, beautiful,’ he said. ‘Sorry to startle you.’

  One look at him and her knees felt they would buckle. She thought she might have imagined how handsome he was. But here he was, in bright sunshine, and he looked even better than she remembered. He wore a white open-necked shirt, grey flannels and a tweed jacket; his dark eyes were just as twinkly, the cleft in his chin was adorable, and his bronzed face was almost startling after being surrounded by pale Londoners.

  ‘It’s good to see you again,’ she said, suddenly feeling shy. ‘How long before you go back to the ship?’

  ‘I’m not going back, I’m joining the army. I’ve got my medical on Monday.’

  He didn’t give her a chance to ask any further questions because he swept her into his arms to kiss her. She found then that her feelings for him hadn’t changed; her heart pounded, tingles ran down her spine and she wanted him.

  ‘Let’s go to St James’s Park?’ he suggested, when he finally let her go. ‘A band plays on Saturdays.’

  The warm sun had brought out hundreds of people, courting couples walking hand in hand, whole families, many of them picnicking on the grass, and elderly people taking a stroll.

  The deckchairs were out in rows in front of the bandstand, most of them already occupied by people waiting for the band to arrive. People with children were feeding the ducks on the lake.

  Morgan put his jacket down on the grass for them to sit on. He explained why he thought it was better to enlist now, rather than waiting to be called up.

  ‘This way, I get to choose what I do. I’ve asked for a transport division or ambulances. If I stayed on the ship till war was declared, I’d have just been pushed down into the engine room or something. They certainly won’t be taking passengers anywhere. And you, Mari, if you want to get back to New Zealand, you should go now while you still can.’

  ‘I don’t want to go home,’ she admitted. ‘I’m just hoping my father won’t order me back.’ She went on to tell him about the secretarial course she was doing, and about her life with her aunt and uncle. ‘I miss my family, but there’s nothing in Russell for me and I’d like to do something to help out here. My mum drove an ambulance in France in the last war; I couldn’t do that, but there must be something I could do.’

  ‘As you speak French you could apply for a job with the government, they might need bilingual secretaries,’ he said, and then went on to tell her about some of the passengers on the ship and their reasons for wanting to come back despite the threat of war. ‘People never know how patriotic they are till they feel their country is threatened. One man, well into his sixties, told me he didn’t feel he could stay in New Zealand while younger members of his family here would be facing hardships and danger. I thought that was a bit mad, like putting your head in the lion’s mouth, but then I want to do my bit too.’

  The clarity and passion in that little speech reminded her of her concerns about his badly written letter. She worked the conversation around to asking him where he went to school.

  ‘Is this about the bad letters?’ he looked at her, shamefaced. ‘I wanted to get someone else to write to you. But I couldn’t keep that up, and I’d have had to own up sometime. I bet you think I’m a right numbskull?’

  ‘No, because I know you aren’t. But I was a bit shocked,’ she admitted. ‘I knew there had to be a good reason for it: perhaps you didn’t get much schooling. So tell me now, and then we can forget about it.’

  He hesitated, eyes cast down. ‘My folks were gypsies,’ he eventually blurted out. ‘They were always on the move. I told you I spent some time in the East End, and that’s where I started school. I got as far as learning to read and then we were off somewhere else. I never got more than six months in any one place. All gypsies live that way, and my folks didn’t think it was necessary for me or my brothers to have a proper schooling.’

  Mariette had never even seen a gypsy. All she knew about their lifestyle was from books, which made it look very romantic. ‘Did you live in a caravan?’

  ‘Yes. Well, at least when Dad worked the fairgrounds or circus. Mum would be running a sideshow too. But in the winter we’d get a couple of rooms somewhere. The only time we stayed put for more than a few months was in the East End because Dad could get casual work in the docks. But they didn’t like that way of life, so it was back on the road.’

  ‘Are they still alive?’

  ‘No, they died in a road accident a few years back. Dad was driving in a convoy of circus trucks, up on the coast road in the north-east of England, and there was a terrible storm; the lead truck hit someone coming the other way and they all piled into one another. Dad’s truck and the one behind him teetered over the edge and were smashed to pieces on the rocks below. Altogether, seven people died that night and a few more were injured.’

  ‘How awful,’ Mariette gasped.

  ‘Yup, it was terrible. But I didn’t even know about it until after their funeral because I was at sea. The last time I’d seen my folks was over a year before, and I’d had a row with Dad about Mum. I tried to tell him that she wanted a permanent home but, as always, he flew into a rage. He was a vicious bully who didn’t care about anyone else’s feelings, so he smashed me in the face and told me to bugger off. I told him then he would never see me again.’

  She could tell by the way he almost spat this information out that he was still hurting about it. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said.

  He gave her a glum smirk. ‘Don’t be – well, not for my dad, he had it coming to him, and worse – it’s Mum I feel bad about, she had a miserable life with him. If she hadn’t been with him that night, if she’d been left a widow instead, I could’ve found her a little place and looked after her. She deserved better.’

  ‘What about your brothers?’

  ‘The two elder ones are just like Dad,’ he sighed. ‘I haven’t kept in touch with them. My younger brother, Caleb, is more like me, and I would see him if I knew where he was. But I don’t, so that’s it really.’

  ‘Did you join the Merchant Navy so you could have a different life?’

  He reached out and ruffled her hair. ‘Yes, that was the plan, but I found it was the same life, only on water instead of land. So I guess I haven’t lost the gypsy in me, or got an education either.’

  ‘But you must’ve learned a lot?’

  He shrugged. ‘About people perhaps, and geography. But I still can’t spell, or write a good letter.’

  ‘You can learn those things, if you read,’ she said. ‘Do you read?’

  ‘I can read a kids’ book OK, but that’s about it.’

  They stayed in the park until about five, when it became chilly, then went to the Lyons’ Corner House in the Strand for some tea.

  It was packed with people, and very noisy, but they managed to get a table in a corner where they could at least hear one another speak. At first, Morgan continued to talk about the ship and the places
he’d seen, but then he suddenly changed tack.

  ‘Will you come back to where I’m staying?’ he asked.

  There was something in his eyes – it was almost as if he was challenging her – and it made her feel wary.

  ‘I’m not so sure that’s a good idea,’ she said.

  ‘Why not?’

  She hesitated. How could she admit she didn’t want to be taken to some seedy room in the East End?

  ‘I thought you loved me,’ he said. ‘You’ve changed your mind, now you know I’m an ignorant gypo, have you?’

  ‘Don’t be like that.’ She whispered it, because he’d raised his voice and the people on the next table were looking round. ‘It isn’t that at all.’

  ‘Well, prove it then, and come with me.’ He got up, put some money down on the table for the bill and held out his hand for hers.

  As they swept down the stairs and out into the street, Mariette felt very nervous. ‘Don’t be fierce like this, it’s scary,’ she said.

  He caught hold of her two forearms and put his face up close to hers. ‘I’ll tell you what’s really scary. It’s finding a girl who says she loves me, and I start to think I can have a better life with her, but the minute I tell the truth about where I’m from and why I don’t read and write so well, she gets chilly on me.’

  ‘That isn’t why,’ she protested. ‘I’m just not sure about going back to where you’re staying.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It’s too soon. You might think it’s all fine because of how we were on the ship, but as lovely as that was, it was very risky, and I daren’t take that risk again now.’

  He shook his head in disbelief. ‘I didn’t think you had all the prejudices other people carry around with them. I’ve met them all in my travels – Jews, coloured people, Chinese, Indians, even Irish are all looked down on – but gypsies are almost always top of the list of undesirables. Now I find you are the same.’

  ‘I’m not prejudiced about you being a gypsy,’ she retorted indignantly. ‘That’s a ridiculous thing to say. What I don’t like is feeling that I’m being pushed into a corner. I don’t want to find myself pregnant when I’m not married, especially with a war about to start.’

  ‘I’d be careful,’ he said.

  Mariette shook her head in despair. ‘If you keep on like this, I just might work up a prejudice against you. But if you must know, it isn’t only about being afraid of having a baby. I just don’t want to go to a nasty, squalid place in Whitechapel and feel bad about it afterwards.’

  He let go of her forearms and took a step back from her, looking a little confused. ‘Well, where do you want to go then?’

  She felt he might be hoping she’d say a hotel, but she wasn’t going to.

  ‘My mother used to live somewhere near here. In a place called Seven Dials. Could we go there? I’d really like to see it. She lived in a pub called the Ram’s Head.’

  He shrugged his shoulders and looked none too enthusiastic. ‘If that’s what you really want. It’s almost as squalid around there as in Whitechapel, but it’s close by.’

  As they walked along the Strand, a wide, grand road lined with lovely shops, it seemed as if Morgan had snapped back into how he was before his outburst. He pointed out the Savoy Hotel, telling her it was the first hotel in London to have electric light, and said he’d worked in their kitchens for a few weeks before he joined the Merchant Navy.

  Mariette was still a bit wary of him, anxious to get things back to the way they’d been earlier in the afternoon, so she asked him questions about joining up and how soon it would be before he was in uniform.

  ‘I think once you’ve passed the medical, it’s off to a training camp immediately,’ he grinned. ‘They won’t want to give me any time for second thoughts. My guess is that by Tuesday or Wednesday, I’ll be doing square bashing.’

  Once they’d turned off the Strand towards Covent Garden Market, the streets were markedly narrower and dingier, and there were very few people around.

  ‘Saturday evening and Sunday are the only times when it’s quiet around here,’ Morgan said. ‘During the week, it’s bustling almost around the clock as the fruit, vegetable and flower traders in the market open up their stalls for business in the early hours of the morning. By nine in the morning, when the office workers arrive, the market folk have done almost a whole day’s work.’

  Mariette was rather shocked to see a group of shabbily dressed women sifting through the rubbish left behind by the stall holders, salvaging fruit and vegetables which weren’t entirely rotten.

  ‘Our ma used to send us up to do that on a Saturday evening,’ Morgan said. ‘Down in Whitechapel, the pickings weren’t as good as here. She used to make a stew with the vegetables and a bit of scrag end of lamb. She’d make it last for about three days.’

  Mariette shuddered at the thought of that, then swiftly turned her attention to the many very well-dressed people getting out of cabs amongst all the debris of the market. ‘What are those people here for?’ she asked.

  ‘The theatres,’ Morgan said. ‘It might look rough around here now, before it’s all been swept clean, but along with some of the best theatres there are some very good restaurants. It’s the only place you can get a drink in the early hours of the morning too, as they open up for the market men. You often see toffs in there, having a couple more drinks before staggering home.’

  Once they were beyond the market, the surroundings became very squalid. There were narrow, dirty little lanes that looked like the places Charles Dickens described in his books. Mog had often talked about her time around here, but Mariette had always imagined it to be more colourful and quaint; she hadn’t expected the soot-blackened buildings, filthy windows and the stink of mould and refuse.

  ‘There you are, the Ram’s Head,’ Morgan said, pointing out a public house on the other side of what appeared to be one of the slightly better streets in the neighbourhood. ‘Shall we go in and have a drink?’

  Mariette didn’t reply immediately because she was suddenly remembering Mog’s story about how she came to be living there. The house where she had been housekeeper to Annie, Belle’s mother, had been burned to the ground. They were rescued by Garth Franklin and Jimmy Reilly and taken to live with them at this pub. A few years later, when Belle returned from Paris, she married Jimmy and Mog married Garth before moving away to the other side of London.

  The Ram’s Head was what she’d come to recognize as a traditional old English pub. It had bow windows, with panes of bottle glass, and a low door that meant tall people had to stoop to get in, but it was desperately in need of some paint and general care.

  Mog had described the upstairs of the pub as being like a ‘midden’ when she first moved in. If the ragged curtains at the upstairs windows were anything to go by, it was still a slum.

  ‘Well, shall we go in? Or not?’ Morgan said.

  She really didn’t want to, but was afraid that admitting her feelings might make Morgan think she was a snob. ‘Of course we’ll go in,’ she replied, trying very hard to look eager. ‘I can’t wait to write home and tell them I’ve been to see it.’

  It was still too early in the evening for the pub to be very busy – there were only about twenty or so people in, mostly men still in their working clothes – and to Mariette’s relief it was surprisingly well kept. The stone floor was scrubbed, the tables were polished and the mirrors behind the bar gleamed. She assumed the portly man behind the bar, wearing a striped waistcoat and sporting a handlebar moustache, was the landlord, and the older of the two barmaids must be his wife. The younger one was a bottle blonde, wearing a low-cut red dress with lipstick to match. She was very flirtatious, fluttering her eyelashes and tossing her hair as she poured pints.

  Morgan ordered a pint for himself and a port and lemon for Mariette, and they sat down near the fireplace.

  She had told Morgan a little about her mother and Mog whilst on the ship. Now she reminded him that they had been married to un
cle and nephew, and that both men died of Spanish flu right at the end of the last war.

  ‘Mog said people were a bit scared of Garth when he owned this place,’ she added. ‘It’s very strange to know this was the pub she cleaned, and where she fell in love with her husband.’

  ‘A lot of villains used to hang around here back then,’ Morgan said. ‘And there were dozens of brothels in the area too. Your Garth would’ve needed to be tough to keep the punters in line. Didn’t you say he sold the pub and moved away to Blackheath?’

  Mariette nodded.

  ‘We used to go with the fair to Blackheath for the August bank holiday every year,’ he said with a smile. ‘Mum used to love it there: she’d take us to Greenwich Park to see the deer and we’d watch the rich people’s kids sailing toy boats on the pond. I only ever remember it being warm and sunny there.’

  ‘Mum and Mog had to learn to be “ladies” there; Mum’s customers in her hat shop were all snooty. They don’t say too much about it because Jimmy lost an arm and a leg in the war, and I think everything must have turned sour for them.’

  ‘They were brave to emigrate to New Zealand after their husbands died,’ Morgan said admiringly. ‘So where did your mother meet your father?’

  ‘It was in Paris, before the war. Noah was there too, and they all became good friends, but Mum came back here and married Jimmy. Years later, through Noah, Dad found out what had happened and where she was, and he came out to New Zealand to find her. And they lived happily ever after.’

  Morgan smiled. ‘Sounds very romantic. My poor mum had no choice of who she married, her family arranged it. I never knew the half of what she’d had to put up with until I was about fourteen.’

  They stayed in the Ram’s Head for a couple of hours talking, but Morgan seemed different from the man he’d been on the ship. Every time she mentioned something she’d done with Rose, or somewhere she’d visited with the family, he came up with something about the poverty and deprivation in his childhood.

  It was as if he was jealous of her, but that seemed ridiculous. Surely any man who claimed to love her would be glad she was being so well looked after in London?