Blasted Things

by Lesley Glaister

‘No, no . . .’ Clem’s voice faded out. ‘It’s just a funny turn. I get them. So sorry for the trouble.’

  ‘No call to be sorry, dear. Can you get her up them stairs, do you reckon?’

  Vincent indicated that he could and, following the landlady, supported Clem up a staircase and along a poky, slant-floored corridor until they reached a door at the end. ‘This one’s free,’ the landlady said. ‘If you take your shoes off, you can lie on the bed till you come to. Can I send something up? A nice cup of sweet tea? Aspirin?’

  ‘Brandy,’ Vincent said. ‘That usually brings her round.’

  The landlady hesitated. ‘I’ll leave you two in peace then. Mr and Mrs—?’

  ‘Fortune,’ said Vincent.

  The door closed on them.

  ‘Well, this is a turn-up for the books!’ Vincent sniggered as he removed his coat and hung it on the back of the door.

  Clem looked round at the mean, cramped room with its dark furniture. The bay window was covered with a stuffy crumple of muslin. It reeked of stale pipe smoke, camphor and the feeble wisp of lavender from a bowl of sprigs on the mantel.

  ‘I’ll be all right in a moment.’ The fit of nerves was passing already – what a fuss about nothing. What a frightful exhibition to make of oneself! Still, she felt obliged to go through with the charade. She removed her shoes and hat, lay stiffly on the shiny green counterpane and concentrated on breathing: count three in, count four out, three in, four out. And was the attack even genuine, she wondered now, or a ruse of her body’s, which seemed so oddly drawn to this common man’s because of a chance, freak likeness?

  As her heart settled back into its customary rhythm, she watched Vincent moving about the room, lifting the curtains to peer out, adjusting the position of a chair.

  A knock on the door made her jump, and she sat up straight, but it was only a boy delivering a tray with a brandy bottle and two glasses.

  ‘There’s smelling salts here for the lady what’s come over queer,’ he said, peering curiously at Clem before he withdrew.

  Vincent put the tray on the bedside table, moved the chair nearer and sat. ‘Feel like I’m visiting the sick,’ he said. ‘Want a sniff of the salts?’

  Clem shook her head.

  ‘You’re not, are you?’ He made a gesture towards her abdomen.

  ‘Not what?’

  ‘In the family way?’

  ‘No!’ she said. Really! ‘By no means.’

  ‘Well,’ he said. ‘You are married, I believe?’ A touch of humour in his voice, a touch of warmth. ‘Mrs Fortune indeed!’ He grinned, and the skin slid beneath the tin patch.

  Although the light was stifled by the muslin, it was still a good northern light; it emphasised the change of texture, the minute gradations of shade between the real skin and the fake. But do not stare.

  She lay back on the pillow and gazed at the ceiling instead, smoke-yellowed, cracked. How many people had lain here before her, staring upwards like this? And what class of people? She shuddered to think. She could feel him close by, hear the creak as he shifted in the chair, him clearing his throat, the tiny click as he swallowed.

  Really, this was an absurd situation. She must set it straight at once. She sat up, stiff against the pillows. ‘I’m sorry for my frightful . . . My goodness, surely you can see how this would look? I should leave at once.’ But somehow she could not move. His head had dropped. She gazed at his thin sandy hair, the neat swirl of the crown, the gold arms of the spectacles that held his prosthesis in place, the slight shadow by his nose where it fitted imperfectly. Poor man. When he looked up and caught her gaze, she was wrong-footed. Beside her on the bed, her hat, her gloves, her bag. In this stuffy room, still in her coat, she was too hot, but to take it off would seem overly familiar.

  He poured brandy into the glasses.

  ‘No.’ She swung her feet to the floor.

  ‘Have a nip now it’s here.’

  She sighed. Oh well. Perhaps it would help; buck her up as Dennis put it. If he could see her now! In certain moods he liked to call her his naughty girl, but this! This was so far beyond anything he might imagine. She experienced a rush of shame and of fondness for him, innocently busy in his surgery, earning the money that she was spending.

  ‘I want to show you something.’ She lifted her feet back onto the bed, sat against the pillows. From her bag she drew her sketchbooks – the little old one and the new – wrapped in brown paper. ‘Sit here.’ She patted the space beside her and untied the string.

  Vincent walked round to the other side of the bed and stooped to remove his shoes. He sat beside her, very close. What difference does it make, she told herself sternly, where he sits? There was an awful unwanted intimacy in the sight of his feet in worn grey socks, a ridge of big toenail visible. She opened the book, turned to the first page: a perfect eye in a ruined face, far more ruined than his. She told him about this boy, how he’d died with that one eye locked on hers until it glazed. Vincent said nothing though his hand went to his own face and she could hear a constriction in his breath. She continued to turn the pages and found herself telling him how crucial drawing had become while she was at the Front, how it seemed to keep her sane, as if it gave her some level of control. As she spoke, the ruined faces and bodies flipped by.

  At last came the drawings of Powell, handsome, whole – oh, how they made her ache. Did Vincent see the likeness? She waited for him to remark upon it, but he did not. He said nothing, and there was an urge in her then to continue talking to him, to tell him things she hadn’t been able to tell anyone, to speak the name she was never able to say.

  As if he’d read her mind he said, ‘Go on. Get it off your chest.’ For an instant his hand rested on the back of hers, light as the brush of a wing; how it sizzled, that small place. She glanced down, half expecting to see a flush, but no, there was just the uniform whiteness of her skin. What fine fingers he had; she would love to draw those hands. Not quite clean, there was a nicotine stain between the tips of the index and middle finger on the right; his nails were unevenly cut; and there was a ridge of what appeared to be yellow paint under his thumbnail, but they were elegant, tapered hands.

  Vincent lit two cigarettes. She did not bother with the holder but put hers between her own lips, tilted her head back and sucked the smoke right to the bottom of her lungs, held it for three and exhaled, enjoying the fuzziness it brought. And then she closed her eyes and began to speak, slowly at first and then in a rush. She told him everything, but really it was as if he wasn’t there. She was hearing it herself, hearing her own voice saying the things that had been locked up, and, oh, the relief of letting it all out and, most of all, of saying Powell’s name out loud.

  When she stopped and opened her eyes it was as if the room had changed colour. Everything appeared magnified and bright. She took a sip of brandy, which, rather than making her drunk, caused her mind to shine bright and clear. A silvery spider dangled from a thread attached to the ceiling; from outside came the clop of a horse’s hooves and a friendly cry of greeting.

  Her voice came to a stop. Powell’s face was there in the sketchbook, grey on white; her fingertip stroked the skin of his cheek and it felt warm. ‘So he was killed and I survived and came back and married Dennis and had Edgar and that was that,’ she finished flatly.

  The spider was twizzling down close to their heads now. She sipped her brandy, shut her eyes.

  ‘Quite a that,’ Vincent remarked.

  Clem shook her head, tasted the bitterness of her own smile. ‘An everyday story of war, isn’t it? Not half as bad as some.’

  She had not told all though. She had not mentioned Aida. Why not? It would have made no difference to Vincent. But instead she pulled away her hand, swung her legs to the floor and reached for her shoes. Sensible brogues for a wet day, for a doctor’s wife; her fingers trembled with the laces. And then she sat up again and took out her new sketchbook: ‘There’s something else I want you to see.’ She flipped past pages of flowe
rs and fruit to the sketches of Vincent.

  He took the book from her hands, and as he looked she compared his face to that on the page, recognising at once that the dimensions were all wrong. She’d given him the flare of Powell’s nostrils whereas his own were narrower, rather pinched, and she’d misremembered the angle of his jaw.

  ‘Me?’ he said. ‘Why?’

  ‘I have to draw,’ she said. ‘I have to draw what interests me.’

  ‘Me?’ He gave a little snort, tickled by the idea.

  She took a breath. ‘I wonder whether you might sit for me?’

  ‘Sit?’

  ‘As a model? Yes. Look, Vincent, how about this? I pay you to sit for me, then you’ll be earning the money fair and square?’

  Vincent was slipping his feet back into his shoes and she felt a twinge of disapproval that he did this without unlacing them. She returned the sketchbooks to her bag.

  ‘Just sit?’ he said.

  She put on her own shoes, went to the mirror, stooped to adjust her hat. ‘I’ll give you the money now, as a gesture of trust, and then we’ll meet and you shall sit and I shall sketch.’

  He had his own coat on now, his own hat. They were two fully dressed strangers in a cramped little bedroom. ‘Where?’ he said.

  ‘I’ll write to you.’

  She handed him the envelope, and this time he gazed at it thoughtfully before sliding it into his inside pocket.

  There came a knocking on the door. ‘Mr and Mrs Fortune? Are you all right in there?’ called the landlady. ‘If you don’t come out soon I shall have to charge you for the room.’

  Clem opened the door and in her frostiest voice said, ‘Quite all right, thank you. Fully recovered. Most kind.’

  ‘I shall have to charge you for the brandy in any case.’ The landlady’s narrowed eyes were darting between Vincent and Clem, the rumpled counterpane and the depleted bottle.

  ‘Naturally,’ said Clem. ‘Mr Fortune will settle with you downstairs.’

  22

  ‘THREE PINTS OF best,’ a bloke orders, a young regular, though the name escapes Vince as they natter about the weather, Ireland, Saturday’s match. But he can hardly keep a straight face, can hardly contain himself. She’s going to pay him to ‘sit’? To ‘sit’! Fancy being paid to sit! It’s priceless – but that’s the joke of it; it’s precisely not priceless. Pricey’s more like it, pricey for her. He takes the money, gives the change, nice satisfying ring of the till, rubs his hands. He can string it out – to kingdom come if need be. Her pale eyes come to him, how they pinked up when her story came out. Truth be told, he felt sorry for her: but she hardly needs pity, married to a doctor, living in that bloody great house. Talk about falling on your feet!

  ‘And a port and lemon for the lady.’ It’s the butcher from Seckford, didn’t catch what else he wanted. Concentrate, and go on about the weather again, Ireland, the match. He’d love to tell Doll about getting paid for sitting on his arse! But she might not like it in a man, might think it makes him sound like a right nancy boy; best keep it quiet.

  She comes out with a plate of ham sandwiches and puts them on the bar. He takes the money for the butcher’s drinks. Doll pulls a pint now, gives him a look, nods at a table of empty glasses.

  It’s mid-evening of a Friday, busiest night of the week, and she’s got a navy gingham dress on, hair piled high, rouge on her cheeks, all corseted up. Why does she have to go and do that? It gives her a battleship shape instead of all that softness; still, it does make a man proud to be associated. They still haven’t had their ‘little talk’. Perhaps it’s all blown over whatever it was, ten to one some tizzy about nothing.

  ‘Just popping upstairs to see Kenny’s in bed,’ she says, hand brushing his arm. ‘Ten minutes.’

  He pulls a couple of pints of stout, laughs at a joke he’s heard a hundred times, fishes some pickled onions from the jar; all the regulars in tonight plus some passing trade, and there’s the thwack of darts, the rattle of dominos, but above all the babble and shout of the end of the week, there’s Clarke who comes in of a Friday, regular as clockwork with his mates to play cards – all of them missing something, a leg or both or an arm or a hand, and that one, Ellis, is it? Missing both arms and an eye.

  ‘Pint of Adnams, if you please, sir.’ Vince turns, a greeting rising to his lips, and it’s only bloody Ted Chamberlain after all these weeks. His heart plummets like a lead weight. Didn’t expect to see him again, but here he is, large as life, moustache like a bloody great dead hamster on his lip.

  ‘Coming up,’ Vince says, holding a tankard, a little chipped, he sees too late – oh well, under the tap. He keeps his eyes on the froth as he puts it on the counter. ‘Ninepence, if you please.’

  ‘Keeping well?’ Ted slaps down some coins and takes a swig.

  ‘Tolerable,’ Vince says. ‘Yourself?’

  ‘Tolerable.’ Ted yawns, revealing yellow teeth, a chalky tongue. ‘Where’s the lady of the house?’

  ‘She’ll be down presently, just seeing to the kiddie.’

  ‘Nice little chap, isn’t he?’ Ted says. ‘Wants a father figure, I reckon though, twists her round his little finger.’

  Every hair on Vince’s head and body bristles. What right’s he got to go talking about Kenny like that when he’s only met him the once? Oh, you can see he’s got ambitions.

  ‘He’s good as gold when it’s just me, him and his mum,’ he lies. ‘Got any kiddies of your own?’

  Ted looks down into his beer. ‘As it happens I have a daughter, looked after by my sister since my good lady passed away.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Vince says, allowing a beat of sympathy. ‘How old’s she?’

  ‘Twelve, lives in Cambridge. I see her every week or two. Happy enough with her auntie and cousins though.’

  Vince nods, uneasy at the chink of sadness; that’s something a soft heart like Doll’s would take to. She likes an underdog, but an underdog with teeth. Yes, that’s what Vince is, an underdog now, maybe, or so it seems. But he has that bite, that attack, that officer capacity that will see him through this campaign, and see him victorious.

  Ted makes his way to an empty stool at the end of the bar. He perches his fat arse on it, and as he fills his pipe you can see his eyes going to the back of the bar, waiting for Doll to emerge. Stay up there, Vince thinks, stay up there. Put your feet up for half an hour.

  It’s plain what Ted’s up to: seeing a ready-made mum in Doll, seeing them as a family unit – Mum, Dad, sister, brother. Oh, it’s so bleeding obvious what he’s after. And he’s got the money to back it up too. But remember the picnic; that didn’t go off as planned. Hang on to that, Vincey boy – something went awry that day.

  When Doll comes down she’s got fresh rouge on, a touch too much in his opinion, and she clocks Ted but doesn’t go across at once. ‘Little tinker didn’t even have his jimjams on,’ she says to Vince. ‘Said you’d be up in a tick and give him what for if he’s not in bed.’ Shame Ted didn’t hear that – put that in his pipe and smoke it.

  Doll takes a tray of drinks over to the amputees and stops to pass the time of day; she’s always kind to them. One of them, Vince doesn’t know the name, lights a fag and sticks it in Ellis’s mouth, lifts the glass to his mouth so he can drink. Watching that makes Vince thank his lucky stars. Two legs, two arms – imagine not even being able to wipe your own arse.

  As he serves drinks, Vince keeps an eye on Ted and on Doll. They’re watching each other all right, even though she doesn’t go up to him, and he just sits there biding his time, nursing his pint, puffing away at his pipe.

  ‘Go up, dear,’ Doll urges and he has no choice. Upstairs he finds Kenny kneeling on the hearthrug, still dressed, playing with a cotton-reel tank, trying to get it to climb a little pile of cinders he’s built.

  ‘Your mum sent me up to give you a rocket,’ Vince says.

  ‘Watch,’ Kenny says. He picks the tank up and twists the matchstick round and round, winding the
rubber band tight, and then sets it down and they watch the thing battering itself against a lump of clinker and finally starting to climb, then toppling off.

  ‘That’s too steep for it,’ Vince says. ‘Get your hands washed now and into your pyjamas.’

  ‘Just one more try,’ Kenny says. ‘We could build a ramp.’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ Vince says. If it wasn’t for Ted down there, he’d spend time with the boy now; whatever Kenny wants, Doll wants. Get him on side and half the battle’s won. ‘Tell you what, tomorrow we’ll make another one, then we can have a race, make an obstacle course, eh?’

  ‘No, now!’ Kenny says. Under his shorts his little knees are rough with grazes, grimed with coal dust. His face and neck are smeared with dirt – and the state of his hands! What he wants is a proper scrub but no time for that.

  ‘Bed,’ Vince says. Yes. The boy needs a firm hand.

  ‘Don’t want to.’ Kenny starts winding the matchstick again.

  ‘School tomorrow.’

  ‘So?’ He sets the cotton reel climbing and Vince snatches it up.

  ‘I’m telling Mum,’ Kenny says, face gone red. ‘Who are you anyway with your tin eye?’

  Vince puts the toy on the mantelpiece. ‘Never mind my tin eye. Any more of your lip and you’ll get a tin ear.’

  Kenny makes a farting sound and Vince’s hand itches to carry out his threat.

  ‘Mum reckons you’re a sad sap,’ Kenny says.

  ‘And I reckon you’re a cheeky little toerag,’ Vince says. ‘Into that bedroom with you. Now.’

  The boy hesitates, peering at Vince’s face to try to gauge how serious he is, but he does go, dragging his feet, slamming the door behind him. Vince breathes steadily and unclenches his fists. Kids! He gives the fire a vicious poke, shovels on more coal. The hearth is gritty with clinker and the chimney furred up. That wants a sweep; he’ll see to that, get a sweep in tomorrow. Sad sap. She never said that, she never would’ve said that.

  He gives the boy a minute or two and then he goes in. His clothes are in a heap on the floor and he’s in his pyjamas. Not washed by the look of him, but you can’t have everything.