Joan had clearly made a huge effort to make her shabby little home in Soame Street welcoming for Mariette. There was just one room downstairs, and a tiny scullery, but she’d cleaned, dusted and scrubbed the stone floor in readiness.
‘I know it ain’t what you’re used to, love,’ Joan said as she hugged her. ‘But I’m really glad to have you ’ere. And I ’ope we can ’ave some laughs together to ’elp you put aside all yer sadness.’
Joan was twenty-eight, small and wiry. And although she was plain, with mousey hair, her personality made up for her lack of looks. Her smile could light up a room, she had energy and fire, and she made people laugh with ribald jokes and irreverent comments about everything, from religion to Winston Churchill.
‘’E’s a fat little bastard an’ a toff, but next time ’e comes down this way I’m gonna offer ’im a fuck,’ she had said about Churchill the first time Mariette met her. ‘See, a man like ’im probably ain’t never ’ad a good ’un. ’Is missis looks to me like she’s too posh fer such things.’
Her philosophy on life was a simple one: you had to search for the funny side of everything, no matter how serious the problem might seem. Mariette was intending to embrace that philosophy herself.
‘So ’ow was the funeral?’ Joan asked.
‘About as comforting as Christmas in a workhouse,’ Mariette replied. ‘I’d like to get a red-hot poker and stick it up Jean-Philippe’s backside. But I’ve brought gifts from him! Of course, he doesn’t know he’s given them to us, but that will make them all the better.’
She opened her suitcase and brought out a full bottle of gin, wrapped up in a cardigan. She had noted the way his guests were knocking back spirits and thought Jean-Philippe would think they’d polished off the full bottle too. Then she dug out the tea, sugar, a tin of salmon, some fish paste and a large chunk of fruit cake.
Joan’s pale-brown eyes widened. ‘Bloody ’ell, Mari, you’ve done us proud. Don’t think I’ve ever ’ad me ’ands on a full bottle of gin. Salmon an’ all! Flippin’ marvellous.’
‘And I nicked this for you,’ Mari said, taking a lipstick from her pocket. ‘It was one of Rose’s, I didn’t think Jean-Philippe would want to wear it.’
‘From what you’ve said about that little maggot, I wouldn’t put it past him to dress up in women’s clothes,’ Joan laughed. She went over to the mirror above the mantelpiece and put on the coral-coloured lipstick. ‘You should’ve nicked more stuff, Mari, it would’ve made you feel better.’
‘To tell the truth, I was scared he might look in my case,’ she admitted. ‘I didn’t want to give him any ammunition against me. And besides, I’m going to plot some revenge.’
Joan lit the fire, and they pulled the two easy chairs up to it. Clutching a glass of gin each, mixed with some orange squash, Mari launched into telling Joan about the day’s events.
‘So maybe this bloke ’Enry might ’elp you get a job?’ Joan said.
‘I’m not even going to hope for that. It’s enough that he knew my mum and liked Uncle Noah. Now, tell me about Ian and Sandra? You said on Wednesday you’d had a letter from them.’
Ian and Sandra were Joan’s two children who had been evacuated. Like almost all the children in London, they had been sent away in September of 1939. When no bombs fell during the Phoney War, many children and mothers with babies started drifting back to London. But Joan had resisted the desire to bring hers back because they were very happy in the seaside town of Lyme Regis, and she felt it was wrong to uproot them. It transpired she’d been very wise. When the first air raids came, the children who’d returned were sent away again, and many people Mariette had met were very unhappy about their billets.
‘Ian’s teacher says ’e’s clever enough to pass the eleven plus and go to grammar school,’ Joan said proudly. ‘And Sandra come top in the class for spelling. I think I’m gonna go down and see them next weekend. Mrs Harding always lets me share Sandra’s bed, she ain’t the sort to put on any airs and graces. She’s a good ’un.’
‘You are too,’ Mariette reminded her. ‘So many mothers are jealous of the women who are taking care of their kids, but you’ve been so grateful and generous with Mrs Harding, no back-biting or trying to undermine her. I expect that’s part of the reason Ian and Sandra are happy there.’
‘It’s flippin’ ’ard, though,’ Joan said thoughtfully. ‘Each time I sees them they’ve grown another inch. And they speak quite posh now, they even ’ave napkins when they eat!’
Mariette laughed. ‘Ooh, I wouldn’t allow that,’ she teased. ‘They might expect you to provide some when they come home.’
Joan frowned. ‘I get scared that I embarrass them, the way I talk an’ that. I’ve missed so much of them growing up. ’Ow are they gonna be when they get back to this shit’ole?’
‘They love you as you are,’ Mariette said firmly. ‘I came from a house in New Zealand with an outside lavatory and no electricity. I’ve got used to luxury in St John’s Wood, but I’d go home to my folks tomorrow, if I could, and never moan about not having electricity. No one is ever like your own mum.’
It occurred to Mariette, that night, as she tried to sleep in Ian’s lumpy little bed, that she really had learned how precious her family were.
There would be no telephone calls now, and it would be a few weeks before her parents got this new address to write to her. She certainly couldn’t afford to telephone the bakery in Russell, even if it had been possible to do that from a public call box.
But she must try to see things in the optimistic way Joan did.
There had been no air raid tonight, or for the last three days. And there was Henry to go to see on Sunday.
Joan had told her a job would turn up, and perhaps she should believe that too.
She felt she ought to be glad she was living close to Johnny too. But he had unnerved her at their last meeting, and she wasn’t sure she felt the same about him any more.
19
Mariette had to ask for directions three times to Willow Road before she finally found it. She had expected it to be right by Hampstead tube station, but it was a good ten-minute walk away.
But she didn’t mind the walk; it was sunny, the Hampstead air was a great deal fresher than in Bow, there were very few bomb sites, and it was nice to see gardens bright with daffodils and lots of trees. There had been an air raid last night, and she and Joan had gone to the shelter. An old man with them was constantly scratching himself, and by the time the all-clear went, around two in the morning, she found herself scratching too, convinced she’d caught whatever was troubling him.
On examining herself this morning in daylight, she couldn’t see anything on her skin, so it probably was ‘all in the mind’, as Joan had claimed. She thought she must grow to be more like Joan, laugh at such things, stop being so fussy about nasty smells and dirt, and try to think of the strangers she met in shelters as potential friends, not treat them with suspicion.
Number eleven Willow Road was a pretty, double-fronted house with a high, neatly trimmed privet hedge which grew in an arch over the tall wrought-iron gate. Henry must have seen her from the window as he opened the front door even before she rang the bell.
‘You found me then,’ he said with a wide smile. ‘I thought afterwards I should have given you directions.’
He took her through to a large kitchen at the back of the house, overlooking a well-kept garden, and introduced her to his wife, Doreen.
‘I’m so glad you felt able to come today,’ she said as she shook Mariette’s hand. ‘You have been through so much, and Henry tells me Noah’s stepson added to it by being very unpleasant.’
Mariette had expected Henry’s wife to be elegant and possibly chilly, but she couldn’t have been more wrong. She looked very motherly, around fifty or so, plump, with her greying hair fixed up into an untidy bun. She wore a hand-knitted jumper and a tweed skirt, and the apron over the top had been washed so often that it was hard to discern a pattern.
/> ‘He was even more unpleasant as I was leaving. But I think I left him with some food for thought, along with all the washing-up to do.’ Mariette grinned, liking Doreen on sight. ‘But I did feel distraught as I walked away from the house. I had so many wonderful times with Noah, Lisette and Rose, I loved them so much, and I don’t understand why Jean-Philippe was so nasty to me.’
‘Noah had problems with him from the age of about twelve. The boy was insolent, he purposely damaged things of Noah’s and did everything he could to create a wedge between Noah and Lisette,’ Henry said. ‘Noah asked me for advice because our son, Douglas, is the same age. It was my opinion that Noah had tried too hard with the lad when he and Lisette were first married. He meant well, of course, but he overindulged him, never correcting him, and the boy came to believe he could do whatever he liked.’
‘I only met him once,’ Doreen said, returning to some vegetables she was preparing. ‘Lisette and Noah brought both him and Rose here for tea. He was objectionable, even then. I felt he was jealous of his little sister and resented his mother being so wrapped up in Noah. The whole time he was here he went out of his way to upset everyone.’
‘I thought boarding school would sort him out,’ Henry said. ‘But he just acquired even loftier ideas of his own importance there.’
Doreen turned to her husband. ‘I’m sure Mariette wants to forget Jean-Philippe today. So why don’t you take her into the sitting room and pour her a glass of sherry before lunch?’
The sitting room had French windows leading on to the back garden. It was an attractive room with large armchairs and a sofa in a green and pink floral design. There was a huge glass-fronted cabinet along one wall, full of china figurines.
Henry poured them both a glass of sherry. ‘Here’s to the future,’ he said, chinking her glass with his. ‘I dare say you are feeling a little daunted about it, this damned war seems to be going on and on, and you must feel very alone now. But war often brings opportunities that don’t come in peacetime, especially for women, I have heard a whisper that Ernest Bevin is about to launch plans to mobilize women, letting them take jobs that up till now have always been done by men.’
‘Really?’ Mariette said. ‘Well, that sounds good to me. I need another job, now that I have to pay rent.’
She explained briefly about her job at Greville’s, and about being a volunteer in the East End, and said that she was now living in Bow.
‘A trained secretary shouldn’t feel she needs to work in a munitions factory or shin up telegraph poles. I know Noah wouldn’t have wanted that for you. Tell me, Mariette, did your father teach you French?’
‘Bein sûr, mon père me ferait passer –’
Henry cut her off. ‘OK, you can speak it. Sadly, I don’t,’ he laughed.
‘I was saying that Dad would have me speaking French to him all day sometimes. And Lisette and I had evenings when we spoke nothing else. She corrected my accent too – Dad’s was more from Marseille, and she felt I should speak Parisian. But why did you ask?’
‘I sometimes hear of colleagues who need a bilingual secretary,’ he said, smiling at her. ‘I will mull that over and see what strings I can pull.’
During lunch, both Henry and Doreen asked her many questions about New Zealand. It seemed their son, Douglas, who was an engineer, had a yen to emigrate there when the war was over.
‘It is a good place for a new start,’ she said. ‘There’s so much space, beautiful scenery and a similar climate to England, especially in the South Island. I think Douglas will have a good life there. Why don’t you go with him? You’d love it.’
‘It has crossed our minds,’ Henry admitted. ‘But it’s hard to uproot yourself at our age. But then, as I often say to Doreen, if Douglas leaves England, there’s not a lot left for us here.’
‘You’d soon make lots of friends there,’ Mariette said. ‘So many people are from England, or their parents were. I should imagine that a solicitor would get as much work there as here too.’ She went on to tell them about how beautiful the Bay of Islands was, about the sailing and the fishing, and how much she missed it.
‘You can handle a boat then?’ Henry said.
Mariette grinned. ‘My dad thinks I’m better than most men. He began taking me out in boats when I was as young as three or four, and I was a strong swimmer from about the age of six. I think it must be in my blood. Dad’s never happier than when he is in a boat, and I’m the same.’
‘I wish I had had the good fortune to meet Etienne,’ Henry said. ‘Noah idolized him. He once said, “He’s the kind of man we would all like to be – fearless, strong and formidable to anyone that dares cross him – but he has such a tender side to him too. I put all my trust in him and never came to regret it.”’
‘What a lovely thing to say.’ Mariette’s eyes prickled with emotion. ‘But Dad thought the world of Noah too. Since arriving in England, I’ve had the feeling they went through something dramatic together, but I never got a chance to try to winkle it out of Noah.’
‘I dare say that your father will tell you one day,’ Henry said. ‘We parents have to wait until we see our children are mature enough to deal with events in our past. Maybe, when the war’s over and you go home, that will be the time.’
Mariette knew then by the way Henry looked at her that he knew exactly what had brought Noah and Etienne together. She wondered if he knew about her mother’s past too. But he was as stalwart as her father and Noah, and she knew he wouldn’t reveal another person’s secrets.
Mariette left Henry and Doreen about five, somewhat reluctantly, as their home was bright and comfortable, the lunch had been wonderful and they’d made her feel cared for. For a few hours she’d been able to shelve her worries. But the moment she had to leave, and Doreen gave her a goodbye hug, she was reminded that Lisette had always done the same, and she felt a surge of grief again.
She knew she couldn’t hope to ever replace what she’d had with Noah and Lisette. She had to grow up and take responsibility for herself. Henry had the telephone number at Greville’s, as well as Joan’s address, and Mariette had a strong feeling he would help her get another full-time job.
The week following Mariette’s visit to Henry was a miserable one, with the worst air raid to date on Wednesday night. She and Joan had been at the old factory all day and were walking home when the siren went off. They hadn’t had any supper, and the shelter they were forced to dart into was a really bad one. There were just rough planks to sit on, a damp dirt floor, and the people already in there resented a couple of strangers in their midst.
It was a terrifying raid. Each time a bomb dropped, showers of dirt came down on them and the whole place shook. Mariette really thought they were going to die that night, if not from a bomb blast, from hunger, thirst or sleep deprivation. When the all-clear came at first light, both she and Joan could barely walk, they were so stiff. Later, they were to hear that there had been several hundred bombers that night, leaving 750 people dead; many had died in a shelter that received a direct hit. But their most enduring memory of the night was of two women going on and on about jam and marmalade being added to the list of rationed items. Anyone would think jam was vital to the nation’s well-being, the way they moaned about it.
‘I wanted to tell them to shut their cakeholes,’ Joan said as they hobbled home, not even knowing whether the house would still be standing. ‘If I’d ’ad a pot of jam on me I would’ve stuck it up ’er arse.’
Johnny had turned up as they were having a very welcome cup of tea. When Joan mentioned that she was intending to go to see her children at the weekend, his eyes lit up at the prospect of Mariette being alone in the house.
Perhaps it was because Mariette was so tired that she snapped at him, ‘Don’t you get the idea that means you can sleep with me,’ she said.
‘Believe it or not, I just thought it would be lovely to be able to sit somewhere warm and snug with you,’ he retorted indignantly. ‘But the chances are there’
ll be another bad air raid, and I’ll be putting fires out.’
He left a few minutes later, and Mariette slumped down on a chair and held her head in her hands.
‘Why did I say that?’ she asked Joan.
‘Because it was exactly what ’e was thinking,’ Joan grinned. ‘Oh, ’e covered it up well, putting fires out was a great way to remind you ’e’s a blinkin’ ’ero. ‘But ’e’ll be back, don’t you worry about that.’
But Johnny didn’t come back. Joan left for Lyme Regis on Friday lunchtime and Mariette went home around six, through the rain, to a cheerless house. She lit the fire, made sure the windows were blacked out and switched on the wireless for company.
There was no air raid, possibly because visibility was bad. But it transpired, the next day, that the German bombers had made for Plymouth instead and wreaked untold damage on the city, just as they had on Bristol at the start of the week.
As Mariette sat staring into the fire that evening, she thought about a woman she’d spoken to earlier in the day. She was around twenty-eight, her fiancé had been killed in North Africa, and she’d been living in lodgings a few streets away from the factory but had been recently bombed out. Like Mariette, she was now staying with a friend.
‘I know everyone around here says, “We can take it.” But I don’t think I can any more,’ she said. ‘My mother died four years ago, my dad went in the last war without ever seeing me. When I met my Sidney, I thought we could build a good, happy life together, but he’s gone now too. I look around at all the destruction, the hardships, and I know it’s only going to get worse. I ask myself what is the point of carrying on? What for? I lost my mother and the man I love, I’ve got just the clothes I stand up in, nothing else. I haven’t got the will to try to build a new life.’
Mariette had hugged the woman and given her a pep talk along the lines of ‘you never know what’s round the corner’. But the truth was, Mariette felt just as that woman did. Joan could focus on surviving the war because of her husband and children. But Mariette’s family were thousands of miles away, she had no one close left here. Even Johnny, who, a few weeks ago, she’d thought might even be ‘the One’, didn’t look as if he wanted to be her friend any more.
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