Maximum Effort

by Vincent Formosa

  Over lunch they speculated on what their wireless operator was up to.

  “Sowing his wild oats,” suggested Woods with a grin.

  Vos had risen early. He was careful not to disturb Denise which was no mean feat for two people sleeping in a single bed together. He watched her while she continued to sleep. He had lain awake for a long time last night, thinking. For a while he could not even order his thoughts as he pondered possibilities. Now that he had made his mind up, he hated waking her, but they had a lot to do that morning before he returned to Amber Hill.

  He hitched forwards on the chair and lightly traced his finger down her cheek. She stirred slightly. Her brow wrinkled as her mouth twitched. She opened her eyes and for a moment she forgot where she was. Then she saw him sitting there and she relaxed. She yawned and stretched, a long luxurious stretch, like a cat.

  “I have to go,” she said. She sat up and then swivelled on the bed, her feet dropping to the floor. She padded naked across the room and reached for her clothes draped over the back of the chair. Vos thrilled at the sight of her, remembering the feel of her skin under his touch.

  She dressed quickly, suddenly feeling that she had lingered too long. She checked her bag, fastened her shoes and put her coat on. Vos sat in silence, delaying the moment that he knew must come. She reached for the notes on top of the chest of drawers. Vos had picked them up from the floor where they had lain all night and stacked them neatly.

  “It’s time,” she whispered.

  He reached out and put his hand over hers.

  “It doesn’t have to be,” he said quietly.

  A thin laugh escaped her lips. It was almost a sneer, a sob.

  “It was a dream last night.”

  “This dream doesn’t have to end,” he said.

  “How?” the word was torn from her, a thin screech of despair.

  “Come with me,” he said simply. “Come to Lincoln.”

  She smiled and withdrew her hand.

  “We know nothing about each other,” she protested. She moved two steps to the right, putting the chair between them, her hands resting on top of it.

  He couldn’t argue with her logic but he harboured some hope. He could see the conflict in her eyes. The tug of being wanted, of being with someone.

  “We had last night. It’s a start. All things have a beginning, Denise.”

  She wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly shivering. She looked out of the window, watching the barrage balloons swaying on the breeze. It was a bright day, the dark clouds of the last few days having been blown away.

  “Christophe. I live here, in London.” She span on her heel to face him. “How can I go to Lincoln?”

  “That’s easily changed. Take a chance. On me.” He got to his feet. He reached out towards her. “On us.”

  “Because of one night together?”

  She avoided his hand and walked past him. She got to within a few paces of the door and then stopped as he spoke again.

  “Yes, because of one night. And think about this. If things don’t work out, it’s a new start, somewhere else,” he waved his hand around. “Away from all of this.”

  “I’m not strong enough, not again,” she told him, still facing the door. Her head was bowed, her voice quiet, hesitant. A surge of strength rushed through him. He closed the distance between them and placed his hands gently on her shoulders. He could feel her trembling through her thin coat.

  “You didn’t have me before.”

  This was the critical moment. He couldn’t force her to come. She only had to reach out her hand and open the door and walk away and he wouldn’t stop her. Time slowed down, seconds stretched and then her shoulders sagged ever so slightly.

  “All right.”

  He took that last half step and she leaned back into his chest, her head and shoulders resting against him. His arms wrapped around her and he planted a kiss on her shoulder.

  “Let’s go, there’s a lot to do.”

  He wrote the note for Carter and pulled the door to. They walked out of the hotel together and made their way over to the nearest underground station.

  It took them nearly two hours to get across London. As they rode the bus to the East End, Vos saw the prosperous centre of London change to densely packed residential streets. The theaters and galleries and government buildings and parks and grand buildings of marble and stone gave way to grubby brick. It was grim. Vos had never seen anything like this before.

  There were row upon of narrow terraced houses and squalid lanes. Very occasionally there was a small square of green where children played, chasing hoops and balls around. Often, children were playing in the street, dodging in and out of traffic. Shops were surrounded on all sides by humanity.

  They went to the heart of Whitechapel. It was here that Jack the Ripper had plied his trade fifty years before. Vos peered out the windows of the bus as it rumbled over cobbled roads. He looked down narrow dark alleys that led to courtyards or other streets. North of the Thames, the area was an overcrowded mix of migrant poor and working class labour.

  He saw large areas of rubble and craters, the leftover work of the Luftwaffe during the Blitz the year before. The East End had borne the worst of it throughout 1940. Surrounding the important Port of London area, filled with warehouses and shipping docks, the East End had endured fifty seven successive nights of bombing. Large areas around these targets had been laid waste with thousands of people displaced. Those that remained were as tough as old boots, working and living amongst the squalor, hanging on, waiting for a better day.

  Denise rang the bell and they got off at the next stop. Picking her way round some puddles of fetid water, she turned a corner and went down an anonymous terraced street. Vos followed behind, his eyes darting left and right as he looked around.

  The bricks were soot blackened and the view was unchanged from the turn of the century. There was an air of world weary decrepitude about the place. On the street corner was a small mean looking shop. Farm Dairy was painted on the sign board above the door but the paint was cracked and fading. The window was stocked with tinned produce and a few wooden crates of limp vegetables were stacked on the pavement.

  A woman nearly soaked him as she threw a pail of dirty water out of her front door straight onto the street. He avoided the splash and people gawked at the sight of an officer walking down the road. Others gave Denise reproachful glances as she passed them by.

  She went down a narrow alley between two houses and stopped in front of a battered wooden door. It had been green once, but the paint had peeled badly and someone had slapped blue paint over the top so it was a lurid mish-mash of colour. She turned the key in the door and went in.

  The doorway opened onto a small area at the foot of a steep flight of stairs. No more than three foot square, it was just large enough for the door to open. Vos closed it behind him to find doors to his right and left. Both of them had locks. Looking up the stairwell, he could see the wallpaper was peeling in places and showed signs of damp. The air was musty. He followed Denise, the stairs creaking under his weight.

  The landing was another small space with three doors. Her room was at the top on the right. Directly ahead was the bathroom. To the left was another door with a lock on it. This one had a plank of wood nailed across one of the panels, covering some recent damage.

  “Come on,” she said. Her room was no better than the hall. It was dull, the only light provided by a dim bulb and a small dirty window that looked out over a small yard. He could see the backs of the row of terraces on the other side.

  There was no carpet on the floor, just a threadbare rug one side of the bed. A wooden chair was in the corner with some things stacked on it. A wardrobe was in the other corner. A shelf contained some personal items.

  Denise pulled the rug back and lifted a short piece of loose floorboard. She took out a small metal tin box and emptied the money from it into her clutch bag. She got a suitcase down from the wardrobe and put it on the
bed. Opening the lid, she started throwing things in it. She was nearly done when there was the sound of a key scratching on metal and the door opened.

  A women was stood in the doorway. Round shouldered, she had lank and greasy dark hair put up in rollers. There were slippers on her feet and she wore a grubby floral patterned dress. An apron was tied around the waist.

  “What’s this? Where you been all night. Who’s this?” she asked, her voice shrill, all indignation and outraged authority.

  “Mrs Perkins,” said Denise, her voice suddenly fearful.

  “Mrs Perkins,” the intruder nodded. “You know the rules.” She gestured at Vos. “No guests; no men in ‘ere. You get this room cheap enough without trying to sneak someone in,” she said, her voice cracking like a whip with not a hint of kindness or soft edges.

  Denise had shrunk into herself. Vos looked at the things in the suitcase. He looked around the room, totally ignoring the creature at the door. He quickly bent down on one knee, checking there was nothing forgotten under the bed. He opened the wardrobe door to make sure it was empty.

  “Is that it?” he asked. Denise nodded, almost struck dumb. He flicked the lid of the suitcase shut and made sure the clasps were fastened. He gestured to the door. As Denise walked past him he swept the route clear, shoving Mrs Perkins out of the way.

  Not ready for that, the older woman staggered to her right. In the time it took her to regain her balance, Denise was down the stairs and Vos was following her.

  “Ere, what’s going on!” she demanded to know. The whole encounter had been a matter of seconds, but that was enough to make Vos’ skin crawl. She charged down the stairs to follow them but they were already outside in the alley. Vos took the keys from Denise and waited for Mrs Perkins to get down after them.

  She gained momentum down the steep stairs, her slippers slapping with each step. It was even money that she would fall and break her neck, but here, Vos was to be disappointed. She stood at the door, hands on hips, her face a picture of mounting anger. Without saying anything, he handed her the two keys and then walked towards the street.

  “Come on,” he told her, his tone crisp and authoritative. Denise followed him, heading back down the terrace. They crossed over the road halfway down and then turned right. Vos wanted to get away from this place and then they could catch a bus back to central London and the train stations. He heard Mrs Perkins outraged screech out on the street as they turned the corner and away.

  Denise got the shakes on the bus ride back. That woman had ruled her for the last six months and more. Mean and grasping, she existed off the money of her girls and lodgers. She lived comfortably in a downstairs flat that comprised the rear first floor of the house. While everyone else had one room, she had three, with carpet, good windows and plenty of coal for the fire.

  She had dreaded the confrontation she knew was to come and then it had all been over so fast. She sat sideways on one of the middle seats in the bus, her suitcase on her lap while. She opened the lid and double checked what was in there. She knew she had everything. There was so little to bring but even so, it had all happened so fast, her brain hadn’t caught up yet. She glanced at Vos and he gave her an encouraging smile, holding her hand for support.

  They got off the bus and walked to Carnaby Street and went to a thrift store he’d seen yesterday. The clothes were second hand but in good condition. More importantly, their purchase didn’t require any clothing coupons. He found a corner in the shop and waited while she tried on various things. They emerged with a dark blue winter coat, scarf, some dresses and a pair of shoes. The coat she had been wearing went into the suitcase. She gave him a little twirl when they got outside, pirouetting on one heel.

  They caught the underground to Kings Cross. As they walked along, she transferred her case to the other side and slid her hand into his, their fingers meshing. It was the first time she had done that and he smiled.

  Woods spotted them first as they hurried along the platform. Carter was looking at his watch muttering to himself about the time. Woods nudged his shoulder and pointed. Carter turned in the indicated direction and his eyes widened.

  “What the-”

  “Close your mouth, skipper, it’s embarrassing,” Woods muttered under his breath. Vos slowed his pace as they drew near.

  “Did I miss much?” he asked. “Sorry I’m late.”

  “No worry,” said Woods. “There’s time yet. We were just going to have a last cuppa.” He gestured to the cafe behind them on the platform. They occupied a table in the corner and Carter shouted an order for four teas.

  “Denise, these are my friends, Alex Carter and Paul Woods.”

  “Denise Bonet,” she said, holding out her hand.

  “Miss Bonet,” Woods and Carter said, holding her hand momentarily. They missed Vos turning pink. He might have known her first name but he had never asked what her surname was. He felt a fool once more.

  It was a timely reminder that they still knew so little about each other. Carter collected the drinks and plonked a tray on the table. He handed round four cups of tea before sitting back down opposite Vos. He mopped up spilled tea with a paper napkin.

  Vos’ earlier resolve faltered slightly, his embarrassment denting his conviction that he was right to do this. Perhaps sensing his uncertainty, Denise stilled her own fears and reached for his hand under the table and gave it a gentle squeeze. He glanced at her and smiled, drawing some strength from her touch.

  They had twenty minutes until the train left. They drank their tea in relative quiet, each gauging their thoughts. Vos half expected her to suddenly change her mind and leave at the last moment. She wondered if she was making the right decision. Woods and Carter exchanged glances, uncomfortable at the idea of seeing a tearful goodbye at the platform.

  Carter used the time to study Vos’ girl. She was a pretty little thing, but her face was thin, it made her seem even younger than she appeared. Her long dark hair was brushed, tied back with a red ribbon.

  They finished their tea and returned to the platform as the porter went up and down announcing the train for Cleethorpes. They made an awkward tableau, stood there as Carter waited for Vos to say his goodbyes. The silence dragged on his nerves.

  “Say goodbye to your girl then and we’ll push off,” he told his wireless operator. Vos fidgeted.

  “Actually, she’s coming with me.”

  Carters lips pulled thin.

  “I see.”

  Saying nothing further, he picked up his suitcase and went down the platform until he found a carriage he liked. Opening the door, he went inside and stowed his suitcase on the overhead rack. They followed him and got aboard. Baggage was squared away and Carter opened a newspaper that someone had left in the compartment.

  The train pulled out of the station on time and left London behind. Carter read his paper. Woods engaged Denise in conversation, telling her about Canada and the wide open countryside on the Pacific Coast. When she left the compartment to go to the ladies room, Woods took the chance to ask Vos what was going on.

  “You’ve just met this girl. It’s awfully fast. Is dragging her up to Lincoln such a good idea?

  “There’s nothing to keep her here. She’s lost everything, she’s just got me now.”

  Vos told them about the bedsit in Whitechapel but neglected to mention the exact circumstances of how they had met.

  “So you’ve rescued her?” Carter said, stating the position as he saw it. Vos recoiled in offence at having it put so bluntly.

  “I wouldn’t say that,” he replied sniffily.

  “I would.” Carter saw he had caused upset and he softened. “Okay, fine. What are you going do to when we get there?”

  “Find a place to stay I suppose,” Vos said moodily, not happy at being put on the spot like this. He didn’t like being reminded that his nascent plan had only extended as far as getting Denise to the train station. Woods lapsed into French.

  “You’re sure about this?” he asked.


  “Yes. Could you-” Vos broke off for a moment, steeling his nerve. “Could you lend me some money?” He asked, his voice appealing. He misinterpreted Woods hesitation. “Just till payday, so I can get Denise settled.”

  What the hell, thought Woods, if they couldn’t look after each other, who else would? Besides, Vos would either repay him or they would be dead together. He dug into his pockets and produced a few pounds in notes. He kept one and some loose change and handed the rest to Vos.

  “Here, take it.” His head bobbing gratefully, Vos took the money from Woods outstretched hand and shoved it into his pocket.

  “What on earth?” said Carter.

  “I owed him some money,” said Woods simply.

  Before Carter could object to the blatant fib, the door of the compartment opened and Denise came back in. The men sprang apart like scalded cats. She raised an eyebrow in query but no one deigned to enlighten her.

  She sat down next to Vos and tucked her feet up underneath her on the seat. She leaned against Vos and his hand found hers.

  After a while, Vos and Denise fell asleep. The thrum of the carriage wheels on rails, the heat of the compartment, the lack of rest the previous night and the mornings events finally catching up with them. In sleep, she seemed a fragile little thing, a porcelain doll almost.

  Not wishing to disturb them, Carter left the compartment to have a cigarette in the corridor. He opened one of the small upper windows and blew the smoke outside as he watched the gathering dusk. The light was fading and the sky was chased with purples and pinks, the clouds a kaleidoscope of colour. He turned as Woods joined him. He lit Woods cigarette from the end of his own and handed it back.

  “What are we going to do with him?” Carter asked, nodding back towards the compartment.

  “Nothing,” said Woods. He picked a flake of tobacco from between his teeth and rubbed his finger on his trousers. “He’s a big boy. He makes his own decisions.”