Fraser's Line

by Monica Carly

  The gloom of a November fog greeted Marjorie as she left the hospital about half past five that evening. She had been working at Charing Cross Hospital since seven o’clock in the morning, and had had only the briefest break for lunch. She should have left two hours earlier, but they were short-staffed, and she had been asked to stay on. In those days nursing was a tightly disciplined profession, with all the nurses terrified of Matron. The wards were run with regimental precision, and cleanliness and efficiency were the order of the day. Being asked to stay on after your normal shift had finished may have sounded like a request, but it was a brave nurse who refused.

  The dark, cold evening felt distinctly unwelcoming as she started to ride her bicycle back to the tiny room she rented. There would, she remembered, be very little to eat. She had meant to do some shopping on the way home, but now it was too late – the shops would be shutting. Then she thought of that lovely little corner shop on Slopes Street with the grandiose name of Allan’s Alimentary Arcade. That was usually open a bit longer than the others. She could at least pick up something there.

  There were still lights inside, and she pushed open the shop door, which ‘tinged’, alerting the man inside to the fact that he had a late customer. He came over with a smile. He was a young man, with dark, wavy hair, a slightly prominent nose, and the kindest eyes Marjorie thought she had ever seen. She began to apologise but he brushed it aside. He spoke with what she thought was an Eastern European accent.

  ‘I can see from your uniform that you are a nurse, a profession I admire very much. Please take your time to choose what you want – there is no rush. Have you been working at the hospital?’

  ‘Yes, she said, ‘at Charing Cross, and I had to stay on. I thought there would be plenty of time to get my shopping done on the way home, but now it’s rather late. Are you always open at this time?’

  ‘I am open until 6 pm, six days a week.’ He said. ‘I, too, believe in hard work. Can I help you in any way?’

  ‘I’ll have some eggs,’ she said. ‘They will be quick to cook.’ She thought about bacon – that would have been rather nice – but her nurse’s pay did not run to any luxuries. He put the eggs in a brown paper bag and waited for any further items. She bought some butter, which he weighed on to a piece of greaseproof paper, and wrapped, and a small loaf of bread. That would have to do.

  ‘This is with my compliments,’ he said, selecting four rashers of the best bacon, ‘and in gratitude for the work you do. Both my parents were nursed at Guy’s hospital before they died and I shall always be glad that they had such good care.’ She tried to protest, but he would not hear of it. ‘There is one more thing – I am trying a new brand of jam, and I am asking my customers for their opinion. There, it is in your bag, and I would be so pleased if you would call in and say if you thought it was good – when you have time, of course. Now I will carry your shopping outside for you.’ He held the shop door open for her, and placed the items in the basket on the front of her bicycle.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Allan. Thank you very much,’ she said.

  ‘No, no, it is Allan. That is my first name.’ He smiled disarmingly, and returned to his shop. She had thought at the time that it was a very English name for someone whose slight accent betrayed the fact that English was not his first language.

  She began to wheel the bicycle across the pavement towards the road, but at that moment a small boy suddenly hurtled round the corner and cannoned straight into the side of it. The force of his body knocked her over, and the bicycle out of her hands so that it fell, skidding along the pavement, and scattering the shopping in different directions. The boy was momentarily entangled with the bicycle on the pavement, but he extricated himself with amazing speed, and ran off, so she had to presume he was not hurt. She rushed to retrieve the eggs, but knew before she picked up the bag that they were broken from the stream of yellow liquid that was beginning to trickle out. Miraculously the jam jar seemed to be intact – it must have been cushioned by the basket in its first impact with the pavement.

  The next moment Allan appeared beside her. ‘Oh dear, dear, good lady, are you hurt?’ He seemed most concerned. ‘I heard the crash, but I did not see what happened.’ He helped her to her feet and began to pick up the bicycle. ‘Perhaps you would like to sit down for a few minutes? I have a chair in the shop.’

  Marjorie felt embarrassed, and tried to protest that she was perfectly alright, and not at all damaged. By this time he had spotted the mangled eggs, and set about scooping as much of the mess as he could back into the bag.

  ‘Is the rest of the shopping in good order?’

  It seemed it was. He asked her to wait there and took away the dripping bag. In a moment he was back with another containing six fresh eggs.

  ‘Oh no,’ she said, horrified. ‘You mustn’t. I can’t accept them – it’s not fair on you.’

  ‘Please.’ His eyes were pleading. ‘I wish so much that you take them. Please do.’

  ‘I don’t know how to thank you.’

  ‘That is not necessary, but I hope you will come and tell me about the jam.’ Then he picked up her bicycle, and began to straighten the handles. ‘I think that should be useable now,’ he said. ‘What was it that happened?’

  ‘A small boy appeared from nowhere, and went slap bang into me. But he’s run off, so he must be unhurt.’

  ‘I hope I catch him one of these days! I shall teach him some manners. Just when you were tired and wanted to get home. I do hope you are not injured.’

  He seemed so concerned that she set off in something of a daze, which she put down to the shock of having been sent flying. There were a few bruises, she discovered, but nothing serious.

  To her surprise she found she was now looking forward to going back, and she tried to work out how many days she should leave it. How long did it decently take to test jam? She didn’t feel she could rush back the next day. And how could she thank him for his kindness? Suddenly a flash of inspiration came – she would use two of the eggs to make him a cake! And she could put jam in the middle from the jar he had given her!

  She managed to wait three days, and after an early shift at the hospital she had time to come home and bake the cake. Thank goodness it turned out as it should – in fact it looked rather good. She got herself ready to leave, wanting to look as nice as she could, and, by the time she had changed her mind several times as to what to wear, the cake was cool enough to have the jam added. She wrapped it carefully, put it in her bicycle basket, and set off.

  Cycling as smoothly as she could in order not to jolt the cake, she was pleased that she had thought of the idea – until a chilling possibility suddenly hit her. Suppose he had a wife? She couldn’t possibly give him the cake then. Whatever would his wife think?

  By the time she arrived and was leaning her bicycle up against his shop, not only did he have a wife – but a baby, or two, had arrived on the scene also. Well, she had to go back and say thank you, and give her opinion on the jam. That was perfectly in order.

  Leaving the cake in the bicycle basket she pushed open the shop door. He looked up from serving a customer and his face was flooded with a look that seemed to say: ‘This is the moment I have been waiting for!’ But of course she was imagining it – a married man would not be thinking such thoughts.

  She stood and waited until the customer had left. He came towards her his face lit with a dazzling smile. ‘How good to see you again. I am so sorry for what happened. Were you much hurt?’

  ‘Oh no, only a few bruises – I think the bicycle came off worse than I did.’

  ‘I had been hoping you would come back – so that I could know you were all right. Did the eggs make it safely home this time?’

  ‘Yes, they did, and I came to say thank you for being so kind, and I did like the jam.’

  ‘The jam? Oh yes, the jam. I’m glad you thought it was good. Look, I am quite a
handy person – would you let me look at your bicycle at the weekend and see if I could repair it a little?’

  ‘Oh no – I couldn’t possibly – you might…’ This was the moment to ask but she couldn’t think how to put it. ‘You might need to do other things with your time.’

  ‘Nothing that cannot wait a little longer.’

  She was no further forward. She found herself blurting out ‘Has your wife tried the jam?’

  He hesitated. ‘I’m not sure – I’d like to think she has.’

  She looked confused, and her smile disappeared. He stepped towards her.

  ‘Forgive me,’ he said, ‘I should not have said that. I have no wife. I live alone. You would not be taking my time away from anyone else.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘then I could have given you the cake!’

  It was his turn to look puzzled.

  ‘I made you a cake – I used some of the eggs and jam you had given me because I wanted to thank you – but I hadn’t stopped to think you might be married, I only thought of that on the way over, so when I got here I couldn’t give it to you.’ It all came out in a rush, and she was feeling rather silly.

  ‘You did that for me? That was a very kind thought. I shall come outside and look at your bicycle.’

  He squatted down and examined it. ‘It has collected some scratches and dents. I cannot make it perfect, but I think I could improve it. Would you let me try? I could come and fetch it on Sunday.’

  ‘Are you sure? I don’t like to take your time – you have so little if you are in the shop all day.’

  ‘I have an even better idea,’ he said. ‘Would you do me the honour of coming to the cinema with me on Saturday evening? If you came here at six o’clock I could lock the bicycle in my shop – and then I would see you safely home afterwards. I would be so happy if you would do that.’

  Her heart suddenly felt so light she was in danger of sounding too enthusiastic. ‘I should love to, thank you.’

  ‘I will see you on Saturday, then.’

  ‘Yes, see you on Saturday.’ She picked up her bicycle and turned to go.

  ‘Please may I have my cake?’

  Was he laughing at her? The look was so kind and gentle she didn’t mind if he was. Holding the cake he stood and watched her go until she was out of sight.

  That Saturday evening at the cinema had been the start of it. She had felt completely happy in his company. He was entirely respectful and courteous, yet warm and friendly at the same time. They laughed over the film together, and then he escorted her home, first on the bus, and then walking. He made no attempt to touch her, but somehow she knew how he felt. When they parted he smiled that devastating smile, and said how happy she had made him, and he would do his best to repair the damage.

  The next evening he was outside her house with her bicycle, restored, if not to its former glory, at least looking as if it had received some thoughtful attention. She felt quite safe in asking him into her tiny room for a cup of coffee, and found him easy to talk to, and cheerful company.

  They began to spend as much of their spare time as they possibly could together. She made every attempt to secure Sunday as her day off, and then they would go out for the day. Sometimes they went for a cycle ride – he rode the delivery bike that he kept for young Reg to do the shop’s errands – and perhaps took a picnic. She felt loved these days. There was a great deal of laughing, especially when they got lost, or caught in a heavy downfall of rain.

  Sometimes she went to his house. The first time she saw it – a small cottage in a road of mediocre houses – she was impressed by the neat outer appearance. He apologised before they went in for his ‘bachelor ways’, but it was clean and tidy, if rather sparsely furnished. However, in the living room there was a piano. Somewhat to her surprise she found he was an accomplished pianist, and she spent many happy hours sitting next to him while he played beautiful lilting melodies that touched her heart. She loved to watch his hands moving capably over the keys and she knew he was beginning to mean a great deal to her.

  And they talked. There was so much to learn about the other. He wanted to know what had happened before she came to the hospital, so she told him about her family home in St Albans. Her father was a solicitor in a flourishing law practice and made a comfortable living. She was an only child and he wanted her, if possible, to train for a career in law. Even if that did not prove possible, he certainly wanted her in an office-based environment. But Marjorie had had other ideas. Even when she was quite young she knew that she was attracted to nursing, and when the time came she was adamant that no other profession would do. It did not matter how much her parents warned her about the long hours and hard work, not to mention the poor rate of pay – nothing discouraged her. In the end they were forced to give in.

  From the first day that she had embarked on her training she knew this was what she wanted to do with her life. The more competent she became the more she revelled in what she could do to ease the suffering of sick people. It was so rewarding to see them smile when she approached, and when their health improved she took a real pride in their progress. She was devastated when a patient died.

  Sometimes when she was working a late shift Allan would come to the hospital to meet her. It was wonderful to walk out and find him standing there quietly, watching for her. He would bring the bicycle, so they could cycle home together. One evening she came out looking very distressed. A little boy she had been nursing for some time had lost his fight with cancer.

  ‘He was only six!’ she had sobbed. ‘His poor parents! How does anyone cope with a loss like that?’

  He had put his arms round her and said, gently, ‘Life can be very cruel.’ She had found his presence marvellously comforting.

  For his part, he told her how he and his parents had come to settle in England. Born and bred in Poland he became aware, at the beginning of the 1930s, that his parents were finding that life was becoming tough. They had owned a small grocery shop, but as the depression deepened, and the boycotts began, there seemed to be little future. He had an older sister, but she was much older than he was and had married. She did not want to leave, but his parents, already getting frail with the worry of it all, felt there were no prospects for their son and looked for a way of leaving. They had a cousin who had moved to England some time previously with whom they were able to make contact. He helped them with the arrangements, and in 1931, when Allan was sixteen, they came to Chiswick and just had enough money to set up their grocery shop. But the strain had been great, and three years ago his parents had died, within a few months of each other. Allan, who had worked in the shop by day, and attended Evening classes after work to learn English, took over the running of the shop. He changed its name from ‘Coleman’s Groceries’ and gradually built it up, making a modest living, and continuing to live in the house his parents had bought.

  ‘You must have been very lonely after they died,’ Marjorie had commented.

  ‘Yes, indeed I was, but I also counted myself lucky to have my life in England, and my small business. I believed that one day life would take a better turn for me and fulfil that other part of my life, but meanwhile I must work hard and make a success of the chance I had been given.’

  On one of their picnics, they were finishing their sandwiches, sitting in a grassy field when it occurred to her to say, ‘I knew from your accent that you weren’t English, although you speak it is very well. But your name sounds English. Was that your original name?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘When we became British citizens we thought it best to change our names to something that fitted in better with our new environment.’

  ‘What was it before?’

  But before she got her answer he suddenly leapt to his feet and started slapping at various parts of himself, jumping about and batting at something in the air, and shouting, ‘Go away! Shoo!’

  Laughing
, she got to her feet and tried to help him, although she couldn’t spot where the offending insect was.

  ‘Oh, it’s gone now. I’m so sorry. Come, let’s go before we are attacked again.’

  In all the commotion she had forgotten about her question, and had to wait some considerable time before she eventually learned the answer.

  They continued to meet frequently, and to enjoy any spare time they had together. On one occasion they took the train up to London. First they stood outside Buckingham Palace and watched the Changing of the Guards. As they moved away he playfully adopted the solemn marching movements, until she was giggling helplessly. Then they went to St Paul’s and climbed the 163 steps up to the Whispering Gallery. There they stood at opposite sides, turned to face the wall, and whispered each other’s name – and the sound came floating round. Finally they went on a boat on the Thames. He held her hand as the outside world slowly drifted by and the feeling of tenderness and protection she had whenever she was with him was so overwhelming it was like living in a dream.

  One Sunday that stayed very firmly in her memory was when they went to Brighton. They took the train early that morning and spent the whole day there. First they wandered about The Lanes. Then they spent a happy hour or two on the pier. After that they clambered over the pebbles down to the water’s edge and stood, like children, sending spinning stones into the sea, trying to make them bounce. A mischievous wave broke higher on the beach than its predecessors and started swirling about their feet. Laughing they tried to avoid soaking shoes, jumping back up the beach, but Marjorie somehow lost her balance, tottered and fell. Allan tried to grab her but was too late.

  ‘You’re not hurt, are you?’ Immediately his smile was replaced by a look of concern. He held her hands, drawing her up on to her feet, and the depth of feeling she saw in his eyes turned her knees to such jelly she was in danger of falling down again.

  ‘I’m quite alright – really I am.’ She began brushing her clothes free of the damp pebbles and sand.