Blasted Things

by Lesley Glaister

  ‘Course, ma’am.’ Dinah seemed a little startled. Clem swallowed, darted a sideways look at her face. What did she know? Had Mr Fortune said anything?

  ‘Hello, darling,’ she said to the child, who was lying on his back, clutching a wooden fire engine and staring blankly at the inside of his white sunshade.

  Dinah frowned at Clem’s shoes. ‘Shame to spoil them in the puddles though, ma’am.’

  ‘Oh, they don’t matter,’ said Clem, glancing down at the old blue suede.

  They set off along the pavement, all lumped up by tree roots so that the pram jolted. Birds fluted and the air was fresh with leaf and blossom and sweetness. Dinah seemed perfectly natural in her attitude. The letter was posted. And that was that. Wasn’t it? Her heart could lift.

  Lift heart, lift.

  The road was quiet but for the slow clopping of a horse, the squeak of a bicycle brake, but as they were about to cross the road, a motorcycle thundered past, setting Clem’s heart hammering.

  Crowing with excitement, Edgar sat up in his pram. ‘Mama!’ He pointed with a stubby finger, surprised to see her there. He looked far too manly and heavy-browed for his white sun hat and the frilly parasol.

  ‘Yes, it’s Mama,’ said Dinah. ‘Aren’t you the lucky little man? Who ought to be asleep? Never mind, ma’am, the walk will send him off.’

  She leaned over the handle to talk soothing nonsense to Edgar. When they crossed the road and set off down a lane, Clem dropped back a little. Ridiculous to get such a fright from a motorcycle! They were ten a penny these days; even Gwen had one apparently. Wouldn’t she just! Bluebells just finishing between the trees and such a froth of flowers in the verge – cowslips, campions, huge pink clovers, Queen Anne’s Lace – all abuzz with bees and flies. It was all over and done with now, the wretched man paid off. A blue butterfly paused on a buttercup, ludicrously pretty, lifted and was gone.

  Perhaps Dinah had been right about the shoes. The suede was darkened already by drips and the soles were so thin she could feel every stone.

  ‘Don’t they, madam?’ said Dinah.

  ‘I’m sorry, Dinah. What was that?’

  ‘I was telling Eddie all about the birdies,’ Dinah said, ‘how they build nests in the trees. Look, there’s a blackie.’

  ‘Do you really think he understands?’ Clem looked at Edgar’s bright eyes, the red cheeks, the clear dribble running down his chin as he gnawed his fire engine.

  ‘You’d be surprised what they understand,’ Dinah said. ‘With my little brothers, I’d swear they understood every word long before they could speak.’

  Clem nodded. ‘And he’s a clever little chap.’

  ‘Oh, he’s clever all right.’ Dinah chucked him under the chin, adding, ‘Though there’ll be hell to pay if we don’t get him off. I’ll have to serenade him if you can put up with it, ma’am?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Dinah proceeded to sing, ‘One, two three, four, five, once I caught a fish alive,’ but Edgar stayed very much awake, pointing around him, saying, ‘dat’.

  ‘I expect it’s the excitement of having Mama along,’ Dinah said.

  They stopped at the bottom of the slope where a deep, clear brook flowed over stones.

  ‘Violets!’ Clem exclaimed, stooping to touch the secretive petals.

  ‘When he’s a big boy he’ll be able to fish for sticklebacks here,’ said Dinah.

  Clem took a deep breath. ‘Have you got found yourself a young man?’

  ‘Not a regular young man,’ Dinah said.

  ‘No one?’

  ‘No one you might call special.’

  Clem gritted her teeth. No one you might call special. They came to a place where the overarching trees made a tunnel of the lane; flakes of light drifted down through the thick leaf shadow.

  ‘Goodness, I’ve never been along here. Isn’t that odd?’ said Clem, voice ringing falsely bright.

  ‘Well, you don’t have much call to be traipsing about, do you, ma’am? Oh, just look at the state of your shoes!’

  ‘Only I thought I saw you with someone yesterday evening,’ Clem said, wincing as a stone bit through her sole. Sharp spots of light danced in her eyes. ‘When you were so late back.’

  Dinah winced. ‘I’m sorry, ma’am, lost track of the time. He had a watch on but it must have been slow. Won’t happen again, ma’am. Mrs Hale gave me a proper row.’

  ‘Who was this fellow?’

  ‘Just a chap I’ve seen once or twice,’ Dinah said. ‘An older chap.’

  Clem’s gloves were moist with perspiration. She watched her muddy shoes on the stony ground for several steps before she asked, ‘And what’s his name?’

  ‘Harris, like me. Isn’t that funny?’ Dinah giggled. ‘He was right forward about it too. He said that once we was married, I shouldn’t have to change my name!’

  The sun vivid on green, yellow, pink, blue made curious patterns before Clem’s eyes and Dinah chattered on as they turned towards home, about Mr so-called Harris and how brave he was – ‘what with his nasty old war wound and all’.

  That nasty old wound, that secret, ridged and ruined place: one tear rising clear like a spring.

  ‘Are you all right, ma’am?’

  ‘Just the heat.’ Clem snapped her attention back. ‘How did you meet him?’

  Dinah told her how he’d just happened to be outside one day, asked directions. ‘Funnily enough, it was on this very walk!’

  A squirrel frisked across the path before them and flowed silently up a tree.

  ‘Look, Dinah,’ Clem said. ‘I’m going to ask something of you.’

  The girl inclined her head.

  ‘You see, I happen to know something of your Mr Harris.’

  ‘He’s hardly my Mr Harris!’

  They turned a bend. A thrush was thrilling out its song and a wood pigeon coo-cooed.

  ‘I’m afraid,’ Clem said, ‘that I don’t think he’s a . . . a suitable person for you to see.’

  ‘Not suitable?’ Dinah stopped and looked up at her, puzzlement in her eyes. ‘Whyever not? How do you know him? He never said.’

  He never said.

  Clem touched Dinah’s arm. ‘Don’t you worry about that. Suffice it to say, I’d rather you didn’t see him again, not while you’re in our employ.’

  Dinah made a shocked little sound and then fell silent.

  They walked without speaking until the lane turned uphill and brought them from the shadow of the trees into a brilliant, hot shaft of sun where the rapidly drying puddles steamed and glinted.

  ‘How are your family? Your father’s lungs?’ Clem asked, worried by Dinah’s unusual muteness.

  ‘Tolerable.’

  ‘You know I wouldn’t usually dream of interfering. It’s for your own good.’

  Dinah shrugged.

  ‘And we do value you so much.’

  More silence.

  ‘I think you said your sister’s getting married soon?’ Clem tried.

  ‘Next month,’ Dinah said shortly. ‘I’ve already asked for the afternoon off.’

  ‘Take the whole day.’

  Dinah peeped sideways at her. ‘Oh . . . well, thank you, ma’am.’

  ‘You see I only want the best for you.’

  Edgar’s eyes had closed. ‘At last,’ Dinah said. She stopped the pram to tuck the coverlet under his legs, and when he stirred began to push the pram more swiftly, singing, ‘Go to sleep, my baby, close your pretty eyes,’ in her thin voice.

  ‘I do hope you understand?’ Clem asked, once Edgar had succumbed and Dinah had slowed her pace.

  ‘Any rate, it’s not as if I’m all that gone on him,’ Dinah said. ‘Tell you the truth, he’s a bit of a queer fish. And old.’

  ‘Perhaps you’ll meet a nice young chap at the wedding,’ Clem said.

  ‘Well, there is Martin, my sister’s Bill’s second cousin,’ Dinah said.

  ‘There you are then!’ Clem’s head was aching, her shoes were sodden, and she
was hot, thirsty, glad to be nearing home. But when they emerged onto the main road, she noticed a motorcycle parked opposite the Beeches; beside it, a tall figure.

  Dinah had paused to adjust the sunshade and when she saw him she gasped. ‘Oh cripes, ma’am, talk of the devil. I’m so sorry. If you was to hold the pram for a minute, I’ll run ahead and tell him to scarper, shall I?’

  Gripping the pram, Clem watched Dinah run along the road. As Mr Fortune listened to whatever she was saying, he gazed past her at Clem, before slowly donning his goggles and helmet. He mounted the motorcycle, swerved round in the road and rode past, lifting his hand as he went.

  ‘Well, that’s him sent packing,’ Dinah said.

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Just that he should clear off and not bother coming back.’

  ‘Good girl.’ Clem said, and then she grasped Dinah’s arm. ‘Thank you for being so equable.’

  ‘Equable!’ Dinah laughed. ‘Well, no one’s ever called me that before.’

  Clem paused. ‘And there’s no need to go talking about this to Mrs Hale, or anyone.’

  Dinah regarded her curiously then shrugged. ‘If you say so. Well, I’d better get his Lordship settled down properly.’ And she pushed the pram over the gravel and round into the back garden.

  In the green shadow of the beech trees Clem stood, clenching and unclenching her fists.

  27

  ‘I’LL LEAVE YOU to settle in then,’ says the thin man with the drip on the end of his nose. ‘No shoes on the beds, please.’

  ‘Bloomin’ cheek!’ says Doll as soon as he’s gone. She pulls back the nets to peer out. ‘Shame we’ve not got a sea view.’ They stand looking out onto the yard at the back where, unfortunately, a Jack Russell chooses that moment to lift his leg against a dustbin.

  ‘Nice enough room though,’ Vince says, surveying the small, lumpy double bed, the black wardrobe and dressing table made for somewhere more palatial, the shiny red paint on the walls. Doll turns away but he catches her face in the dressing-table mirror: disappointment written all over it. Could’ve laid out extra for a sea view, could’ve chosen a better-class hotel come to that, but fifty quid only goes so far. There’s the wedding to fork out for next.

  ‘And we’ll be out and about most of the time any rate,’ he says.

  She runs her finger along the mantelpiece, rearranges the china ashtray, shaped like a fig leaf, on its lacy doily.

  ‘Let’s have another butcher’s at the boys’ room,’ she says, and they all troop back to the narrow single with its iron bunks that remind Vince of his old barracks.

  ‘Can I have the top one?’ Kenny clambers up the ladder.

  ‘Course you can,’ Doll says. ‘Vince doesn’t mind, do you, dear?’

  ‘We’ll be snug as two bugs in here,’ Vince says. What time will the nipper be asleep? The real fun will have to wait till then. Strategy: tire him out good and proper, exercise, fresh air, then he’ll sleep like a top. They’ll have tea early, get Kenny settled, then downstairs to the bar for a quiet drink or three. And once he’s got her well oiled, that’s when he’ll pop the question. The ring sits in his pocket in its tidy little box. Nineteen shillings and eleven pence it set him back – thin gold-plated band and big sparkly diamond (well, paste) but it looks the genuine article. A real knuckleduster. Get that on her finger and he’s home and dry.

  By the time he’s unpacked and hung his clean shirt on the back of the door, Doll’s powdered her nose and Kenny’s lined up his lead soldiers on the windowsill, it’s gone noon. A cold mist has rolled in since they arrived, and he’s shivering in his blazer and boater. Doll’s in a straw hat too, shiny yellow with a red ribbon. The plan was for the three of them to sit on the front eating fish and chips out of newspaper, but it’s too cold so they go into a café where he orders fish and chips, peas, bread and butter and a pot of tea. As he pays – an arm and a leg – the woman behind the till grimaces sympathetically at his face. He’d forgotten; he’d only gone and forgotten, what with all that’s on his mind. He feels himself colour up. Silly cow. She’s on a hiding to nothing if she expects a tip now.

  But come on, buck up! After all, here they are, a proper little family on holiday, anyone’d think that. They’ve got the window seat and all, and they can peer through the steamy glass and watch the trippers go past as they tuck into their grub.

  ‘Mind,’ says Doll as Kenny splashes vinegar on the table.

  ‘Shall I be mother?’ Vince lifts the big brown teapot and pours them all a cup.

  ‘Can I bathe after dinner?’ Kenny asks.

  ‘You’ll catch your death,’ says Doll.

  ‘Wouldn’t.’

  ‘Shame about the weather,’ Doll remarks. ‘These chips are a bit soggy, don’t you think?’

  ‘Nice bit of fish though,’ says Vince.

  ‘What’s the point of the seaside if I can’t go in?’

  ‘I do like a bit of rock eel,’ she says, ‘though the batter could have done with a minute or two more . . . That’s enough.’ She glares at Kenny who’s heaping sugar into his tea. ‘Oh, I do wonder how Arthur’s getting on,’ she says. ‘I should have warned him about that dicky valve. He’ll have opened up by now. Oh, Vince, do you think you should telephone and tell him?’

  ‘Forget all about it,’ he says. ‘He’s a pair of safe hands. Enjoy yourself. You’ll be back soon enough.’

  ‘Want to bathe,’ Kenny says.

  Doll belches into her hankie. ‘Excuse me. We’ll see, if the sun comes out. Say thank you to Mr Fortune for the nice dinner,’ she adds. She’s left half her chips, he notices.

  ‘Ta,’ says Kenny.

  ‘Call of nature.’ Doll gets up and lugs her great fat handbag into the Ladies’. Whatever has she got in there!

  ‘How about a kickabout this afternoon?’ says Vince. ‘We can go to one of them shops along the front, buy ourselves a football.’

  ‘But I want to swim.’ Kenny tips salt into his hand and licks it off.

  ‘I don’t mind, but it’s up to your mum.’

  ‘I want to bathe, then buy a ball.’ More salt, scattered all over the shop.

  ‘I’d lay off that if I were you.’

  ‘But you’re not me, are you?’ Kenny bangs down the salt cellar. ‘Bathe, kickabout then an ice-cream. Double scoop.’

  ‘A few manners wouldn’t go amiss. A few pleases.’

  ‘Please, please, please,’ says Kenny. ‘Is that enough of ’em?’

  ‘It’s enough of your cheek. I’d have given my eye teeth for a treat like this when I was a nipper,’ Vince says.

  ‘What are eye teeth?’

  Vince can feel his spirits flagging, but here comes Doll, freshly rouged by the look of it and what with the new yellow hat and red ribbon, she looks a bit on the gaudy side, truth be told. But it’s touching, that’s what it is, her holiday gesture, getting into the spirit of it all. If only she’d stop carping on.

  They step outside into the chilly mist, the moan of foghorns from far out at sea.

  ‘Mr Fortune says I can go for a dip,’ Kenny says.

  ‘What I said was it was up to your mum.’

  ‘Too cold, dearie.’

  ‘Not fair.’ Kenny stamps his foot and Vince’s hand itches to give him what for, demonstrate some authority, but he doesn’t dare. The three of them walk along the promenade in silence. He doesn’t dare tuck Doll’s arm under his either. Lined up at the sea wall is a row of wheelchairs: old soldiers draped in blankets, staring, those of them that aren’t blind, out across the Channel at God knows what memories of carnage.

  A poster catches Vince’s eye. ‘Tell you what, how about the flicks?’ he says.

  ‘And can I have an ice?’

  Doll laughs indulgently. ‘Of course you can. What a good idea, Vince.’ She smiles properly for the first time since they got off the train. The film on first is a Buster Keaton, right up Kenny’s street. Sitting close enough to Doll to feel the warmth of her thigh, he enjoys her l
aughter, and their hands brush together and linger a bit, he’d swear, when he leans in to light her cigarette. He spends most of the film gazing sideways at her, wondering what she’d do if he crept his arm along the back of the seat. The thought makes his lips twitch. The grey light from the screen ripples over her face, and now and then her hand goes to her hair, or she rustles in her bag for barley sugars, or she leans down to whisper to Kenny.

  ‘Well, that was a treat,’ she says, once they’re out and blinking in the cold daylight. ‘You liked that, didn’t you, Kenny? Say thank you to Mr Fortune.’

  ‘Ta.’

  ‘What now?’ Vince asks.

  ‘Bathe.’

  ‘Tell you what I’d like to do, Vince,’ Doll says: ‘is get back to that hotel for forty winks if you wouldn’t mind keeping Kenny amused?’

  ‘Can I go in the sea?’

  ‘How many more times?’

  Kenny sticks his lip out.

  ‘There’s a dance in the hotel tonight, did you notice?’ she says. ‘That’s why I need my beauty sleep.’ She smiles at him, a sparkle in her eyes. So that’s her little game! Put him on hold till later. Flaming tease!

  ‘As if you need beauty sleep,’ he says, warming right through at the thought of her in his arms on the dance floor.

  ‘You can wipe that look off your face if you want any more treats,’ she says, and he flinches – though of course it’s Kenny she means.

  ‘Like what?’ Kenny asks.

  ‘Saving your strength, eh?’ Vince says, ignoring the boy. ‘Tell you the truth, I wouldn’t mind forty winks myself.’ He thinks of the shiny red room, the narrow double in which, soon, they’ll be pressed so close together.

  ‘Crazy golf!’ shouts Kenny, seeing a sign. ‘Can we play crazy golf?’

  ‘Not my cup of tea,’ Doll says. ‘but Mr Fortune’ll play with you, won’t you, dear? Then we can meet up later for our tea.’ She pats his arm. ‘You be a good boy,’ she says to Kenny and without so much as a by-your-leave saunters off.

  ‘Come on then,’ says Kenny, tugging at his sleeve.

  They eat tea in the lounge with the other residents. Piles of sandwiches, hardboiled eggs and potted meat, sausage rolls, dainties and fancies of all sorts, a right old spread. Kenny wanders off and joins the children at another table.