The laughter died from Kate’s eyes. ‘How is Esther?’ she asked, dispirited by the knowledge that there had been a time when she would have known; a time before her father’s internment; a time when she had called in to have a cheery word with the wheelchair-bound Esther almost as often as she had called in at the Jennings’. ‘The raids must be horrendous for her,’ she said, wondering how on earth the two old ladies managed through an air raid on their own. ‘Is she suffering terribly?’
Leon speared another sausage with his fork and chuckled. ‘Suffering? You’re joking. Esther doesn’t suffer through a raid. She enjoys them!’
Kate’s jaw dropped and her mouth fell open.
Leon’s chuckles increased. ‘Esther’s exact words when I asked her how she coped with the stress of an air raid were, “Stress? Stress? Bless you for being so concerned young man, but the truth is, I haven’t had so much excitement for years!”’
As a bitterly cold January edged into a freezingly cold February, Leon was able to dispense with his crutch not only in the house, but outside of it too. Acting as an unofficial fire-watcher for Magnolia Square, his fund of anecdotes about the Square’s inhabitants increased. He told Kate of how the Jennings’ had found an unexploded bomb in their rear garden and of how Miriam had strapped it firmly to Billy’s back and sent him off on his bicycle with instructions to deliver his cargo to Shooters Hill Police Station.
‘Apparently the officer in charge took one look at him and what he was loaded with and told him he was in the wrong place and that he should take his present to the ARP post. When he got there Mr Nibbs was on duty and apparently only relieved him of his burden with the greatest reluctance.’
And it was via Leon that she learned that Ted Lomax had been recommended for a medal after courageously saving the lives of wounded comrades when under heavy fire. He also told her of how Miriam was now not only looking after Beryl and Billy while Mavis braved the Blitz as a motor cycle despatch-rider, but that she was also caring for a little girl Beryl’s age, whose family had been bombed out of their Catford home.
‘Her name is Jenny,’ Leon said to her as they sat out another night of bombing in the Anderson. ‘She’s a pretty little thing, but quiet.’
‘So Billy has two female acolytes now, not just one,’ Kate said, laughing despite the sickening crump, crump, crump of shells spattering into Magnolia Square. ‘That young man is going to finish up with a harem!’
In the second week of February, on the same day, Kate received a postcard from Lance Merton and Leon attended his long-awaited medical and was declared once again fit for active service.
‘But you’re not fit!’ Kate protested, hardly able to believe what he was telling her. ‘You still limp badly!’
‘What’s a limp between friends?’ Leon said humorously, hiding his real feelings with difficulty. ‘There’s a fellow flying in the RAF who has two tin legs.’
Ordinarily, he would have been over the moon at having persuaded the medical officer that he was fit enough to return to duty. He had never enjoyed long spells ashore, even in peacetime. But that had been because time spent ashore was always time spent in cheerless lodgings. He had never had a home to return to. He had never, since his father had died, known anything approaching a home. Until now.
They were in the kitchen and it was early evening. A potbellied wood-burning stove gave out cosy heat; soup simmered on one of the gas hobs; there was a batch of freshly baked bread on a wire cooling tray on the table. Though he didn’t know how it had happened, and he couldn’t even tell her that it had happened, Kate Voigt’s home had become his. Unintentionally, by her generosity and gentleness and gaiety, she had made it so. Reluctance to leave such a haven, knowing that he was in all likelihood leaving it for ever, was not the only reason for the tumult raging behind his false show of humour.
The baby was due in a few weeks’ time. Though the subject had never been mentioned between them, he knew that she was depending on him still lodging with her when her time came. For if he wasn’t there, who else would look after her? Who else would queue endlessly at the shops for groceries and vegetables? Who else would make sure there was enough wood in the house to eke out her small supply of coal? And if she went into labour suddenly, without warning, who else would notify the doctor?
At the thought of her struggling on her own, his heart felt as if it was being squeezed by icy fingers. Harriet Godfrey would give her all the help she could, as would her other middle-aged friend, Ellen Pierce. It wouldn’t be easy for them though. Harriet Godfrey was wholeheartedly committed to her ambulance-driving work and Ellen Pierce lived a fair distance away and had her large collection of bombed-out and abandoned animals to care for.
Not for the first time his thoughts turned to Carrie Collins. When Kate had told him how close she and Carrie had once been, and the cause of the rift that now divided them, he had been appalled. He wondered what Carrie’s response would be if he were to approach her with the aim of effecting a reconciliation between them.
‘When will you be leaving?’ Kate asked him, breaking in on his thoughts, her voice sounding as if it were being strangled in her throat.
The prospect of life without him was nearly intolerable. He cheered and comforted her and even through the heaviest bombardments by the Luftwaffe his presence made her feel safe and secure. She had imagined he would be with her all through the spring and possibly all through the summer too. She wasn’t mentally prepared for him leaving so abruptly; she wasn’t prepared for the loneliness that would follow; for the sense of loss she knew she would feel.
‘I’m not sure. I have to wait to be notified.’
He saw the postcard she was holding and said, still wondering how the hell he could arrange for her to be suitably looked after during her confinement, ‘Who is that from? Ellen?’
‘No.’ Her voice was odd. Thick. She looked down at the postcard in her hand as if seeing it for the first time. ‘It’s from someone who was friends with Toby, Lance Merton. He was in Toby’s squadron and he came to visit me after Toby’s death. Hector was with him when he visited me and he was kind enough to leave him with me. Hector was Toby’s dog,’ she said, wondering if she had told him so previously; wondering how to phrase the question she so desperately wanted to ask.
‘He sounds like a decent bloke,’ Leon said, sure that whatever kind of bloke Merton was, they would hate each other on sight. ‘And a lucky one, too. Not many pilots who fought in the early days of the Battle of Britain are alive to tell the tale.’
‘No. He is lucky. I think that’s why he drops me the occasional postcard. Just to let me know that he’s still alive.’
Leon was damn sure he knew the reason Merton dropped her the occasional postcard. He was determined to keep in touch with her. And when the opportunity arose, he would visit again. And when he visited her again he would do so in the hope that she had recovered sufficiently from her grief over Toby Harvey’s death to be able to consider him as a replacement. His hands clenched into fists.
‘I don’t suppose you have leave very often in the Navy,’ Kate said, wondering how she could frame her question without sounding as if she were taking far too much for granted, ‘but when you do have leave . . . if you want to come back here . . .’
‘Like a shot,’ he said, aware that for the first time since they had met, their conversation was stiltedly awkward and constrained.
She smiled, but it wasn’t her usual smile. It was brittle, almost false. The happiness flooding through him was chilled immediately. Had her invitation been prompted by pity? Had she made the offer because she knew he had no family and she felt sorry for him?
Hardly able to contain her relief at his answer, Kate said, her voice still odd, still thick, ‘Good. I’m glad. I’ll make sure the billeting officer doesn’t put anyone else in your room.’ So that he shouldn’t be aware of the depth of her relief, she began busily laying cutlery on the kitchen table, saying as she did so, ‘It’s a pity you won’t be he
re when the baby is born. It will be months, perhaps, before you know whether it’s a girl or a boy.’
‘I’ll be thinking of you both,’ he said gruffly. From the moment they had first met, the baby’s existence had disconcerted him. He wasn’t accustomed to being in the company of a pregnant woman. Not one he knew was pregnant, anyway. Not one so heavily pregnant. It made him feel unsure; uncertain. Should she be walking Hector so energetically on the Heath between bombing raids? Was it wise for her to get down on her hands and knees to clean the kitchen floor? He had offered to do it for her but she had laughed his offer away, saying that she was pregnant, not ill, and that she enjoyed cleaning the floor.
Her preparations for the birth, and her unfazed attitude towards it, had disconcerted him even more.
‘What is this for?’ he had asked one evening as she began putting everything she would need for the birth in a basket, not sure he truly wanted to know the answer.
‘The crêpe bandaging?’ The electricity was down and in the light of emergency candles her blue eyes looked almost amethyst. ‘It’s to hold the pad on the baby’s tummy in place.’
He must have looked blank for she gave a husky giggle, saying, ‘After the umbilical cord has been cut, Doctor Roberts will put a sterilizing pad on what will be the baby’s tummy-button.’
‘Is that what the safety-pins are for?’ he had asked, thankful the bandaging wasn’t for a more grisly purpose.
She nodded. ‘And the alcohol and string and lint.’
As she was talking she was putting other items into the basket. A pair of strong scissors, Vaseline, antiseptic.
Watching her, he had worried then about how she would manage. Now, knowing that he wouldn’t be around to do the heavy tasks in the house and to take care of her safety and the baby’s safety during an air raid, he worried even more.
He would have to speak to both Harriet Godfrey and Ellen Pierce. And he would have to speak to Carrie.
Harriet Godfrey and Ellen Pierce both assured him that they would take good care of Kate in his absence. Leon was reassured, but only marginally. It was highly likely that when Kate went into labour, Harriet Godfrey would be miles away, driving her ambulance through streets strewn with shattered glass and rubble. And Ellen Pierce didn’t live near enough. Depending on the activity of the Luftwaffe it might be days after the baby’s birth before Kate could even get a message to her. Which left Carrie.
‘She ain’t at ’ome and she ain’t dahn the market,’ Billy said to him helpfully when he knocked on the Jennings’ door and asked for her. ‘She’s doing war-work. Can I give ’er a message?’
Leon shook his head. He knew he was on exceedingly dangerous ground in speaking to Carrie about Kate and he didn’t want the situation made even more volatile by any message Billy might mutilate.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I’ll catch up with her later.’
‘She’s workin’ as a clippie on the buses,’ Billy said, staring at Leon with undisguised fascination. ‘If I touch yer, will any o’ that black rub off?’
It was a sincerely asked question, not meant to be rude or insulting.
‘No,’ Leon said equably, knowing that Billy could have no idea of the echoes his question had raised in him. The chant by the orphanage bully when he had first arrived there, nearly insensible with shock after his father’s perfunctory burial: ‘Your father was a nigger!’ The demand to know if he could swing from tree to tree like a monkey; if his hair was real hair, or wire.
‘Are you joining your ship soon?’ Billy asked, wanting to keep Leon on the doorstep for as long as possible, hoping some of his mates would see the two of them deep in conversation. ‘My mum says you’re a bloody fool for playin’ fit when you could swing it for a bit longer. She says my dad was a bloody fool as well, riskin’ ’is neck when ’e ’ad no need. My dad’s goin’ to get a medal. I don’t know anyone else whose dad is goin’ to get a medal. ’ave you got a medal?’
‘No. Sorry to be a disappointment, Billy.’
‘’S’ all right,’ Billy said magnanimously. ‘Not everyone’s a ’ero.’ His gap-fronted teeth flashed in a smile of blinding brilliance. ‘My dad is though!’
‘This came for you while you were out,’ Kate said, handing him an official-looking buff envelope. For once there was no smile of welcome for him on her face. She knew what the envelope contained. She knew that soon, within hours maybe, he would be leaving the house with his kit-bag over his shoulder.
He slit the envelope open and read the brief notification within. ‘I’m to report for duty in twenty-four hours’ time. My ship is HMS Viking. It doesn’t say so, but I imagine we’ll be sailing to the Mediterranean to give back-up to the troops in North Africa.’
She winced, shock flaring through her eyes.
‘Steady on,’ he said, concerned. ‘The Med isn’t bad news, Kate. It’s a cinch compared to convoy duty in the Atlantic.’
‘It’s not that . . .’ She took tight hold of the back of the nearest chair. ‘It’s the baby.’ There was incredulity in her voice. ‘I’m having a contraction, Leon! The baby’s on its way!’
Chapter Sixteen
‘Jesus Christ!’ It was the first time he had ever blasphemed in front of her, but he could no more have contained his reaction than flown to the moon. How long did babies take to come? How long was it before he had to be aboard ship? If she was beginning labour now, in the early afternoon, did it mean the baby would be born sometime during the night when, in all likelihood, there would be an air raid at its height?
‘Are you sure?’ he demanded as her tense fingers began to relax their hold of the chair-back. ‘I thought you weren’t due for another two weeks or so?’
She took a deep, steadying breath, her body slowly once again relaxing. ‘I’m sure.’ There was excitement in her voice. And apprehension. ‘Doctor Roberts told me first babies take their time. He said I wouldn’t need to send word to him until the contractions are coming regularly.’
Leon stared at her. ‘Regularly? What’s regularly? Every five minutes? Every fifteen minutes? Every half an hour?’
His alarm was so obvious that she began to giggle. ‘Every fifteen minutes probably. I don’t remember him saying.’
‘Jesus Christ, Kate!’ For the first time he felt utterly exasperated with her. ‘Do you mean you didn’t ask him? Do you mean you don’t know?’
‘I’ll be able to tell when it’s time to send for him,’ she said confidently. ‘Will you help me get things ready? I need to strip the bed and put newspapers on the mattress. And then I need to fold some flannel sheets into thick pads and . . .’
‘Sit down. Sit down. I’ll do it.’ He ran a hand through his short, crinkly hair. ‘Where do you keep the sheets?’ he asked, wondering if he should try and get a message to Ellen Pierce; if he should contact Harriet Godfrey.
‘In the airing-cupboard on the landing. And there’s no need for me to sit down. The more I walk around, the sooner the baby is likely to put in an appearance.’
He didn’t even attempt to argue with her. Instead he turned on his heel, heading for the stairs. He had twenty-four hours before he had to be aboard his ship. Would the baby be born within twenty-four hours? Despite her insistence that it wasn’t necessary, wouldn’t the most sensible course of action be for him to contact Doctor Roberts?
He opened the airing-cupboard. The flannel sheets were folded neatly on a slatted-shelf next to a pile of cotton sheets and pillowcase covers. He scooped them up into his arms. God Almighty, but it was worse than being under fire! How could she possibly be so serene about it all? Was it because no-one had told her of the difficulties that could be involved? It certainly didn’t sound as if Roberts had troubled to explain much to her.
When he went into her bedroom with his cargo it was to find her already stripping the bed of its blankets and sheets. She turned her head as he entered the room, a smile on her face. Then she gasped, sucking in her breath, her hand shooting out to grasp the brass knob of her bed-head
.
‘What is it?’ He crossed the room swiftly towards her, tumbling the sheets on to the bed as he did so. ‘Is it another one? How long is that since the last one? Should they be coming so quick, so soon?’
Her voice, when she finally answered him, was not quite as confident as it had been. ‘I don’t know. Carrie would know . . .’
She very rarely spoke of Carrie because to speak of Carrie was to open herself up to more hurt and pain than she could bear.
He said, knowing the sense of loss she was feeling; knowing that it was Carrie she needed with her at a time like this, not a ham-handed male, ‘Go back downstairs and make yourself a cup of tea. I’ll see to the bed. And when I’ve seen to the bed, I’ll go round and have a word with Doctor Roberts.’
This time she didn’t suggest that it wasn’t yet necessary. With a hand to the drumming throb in the middle of her back, she said, ‘Would you like a cup, too? And a sandwich?’ Husky laughter entered her voice. ‘You’d better take me up on that last offer. It might be quite some time before I’m able to offer again!’
Even before she had lumberingly made her way to the foot of the stairs he had completed her interrupted task of stripping the bed. Newspapers. Where were the newspapers? He looked around the room and saw them, neatly stacked and tied with string by the side of her dressing-table.
With ship-shape neatness he spread them deeply and evenly over the mattress, then he folded the flannel sheets into thick pads and laid them over the top of the newsprint. Though she hadn’t specifically told him to do so he then tucked a spotlessly clean cotton sheet over the protected mattress. The result looked intimidatingly surgical but he doubted if she wanted a top sheet putting back on the bed and he had the common sense to realize that she certainly wouldn’t want dust-harbouring blankets putting back on it.
He ran a hand through his tight-knit hair again. His cup of tea and sandwich could wait. He was going straight to Doctor Roberts’ surgery. Kate’s pains were coming too close together for him to be able to rely on the old adage that first babies took their time. This one might very well not be doing. It might, instead, be just about to give him the most spectacular send-off to sea he’d ever experienced.
The Londoners Page 28