Part of the Furniture

by Mary Wesley

  ‘Try not to be stupid.’ He was weary, closed his eyes, breathed carefully.

  The gas fire popped in the grate; the raid was moving away across the city. Downstairs there were voices in the hall, doors opened and closed, a lavatory flushed, footsteps clattered out into the street. The front door slammed.

  He said, ‘Gone dancing,’ got carefully to his feet and, moving to sit at a desk, drew writing-paper towards him, wrote, folded the paper, put it in an envelope, licked it, sealed it, came back to his chair. ‘For what it’s worth,’ he said, ‘I have written to my father. He will help you if your relations fail—’

  ‘But I have no—’

  ‘So you said, no relations, but should you get stuck, need help, take this, put it in your bag. Go on.’

  Juno put the letter in her bag.

  He said, ‘Now give me your hand, you are drunk and it’s time to sleep.’

  He pulled her up and led her to the bed, where he lay down fully dressed. She felt dizzy and sat beside him, holding her head in her hands.

  He said, ‘Lie down, you’ll feel better.’ She lay down. He pulled a blanket over them both, ‘Lie quiet, go to sleep.’

  She knew she would not sleep, the room was swooping about. She cried out, ‘I—’

  He said, ‘What is it now?’

  ‘Nothing, nothing.’

  He said unkindly, ‘There will come a time when Jonty and Francis are just a bad dream.’

  She shuddered away from him but he pulled her back, letting his arm lie across her body. She was drunk. She would wait until he was asleep then slip away, let herself out of the house and run. But when the All Clear sounded she slept on, breathing deeply and sweetly through her nose.

  The cold woke her. Cold feet where the blanket had slipped. The chill weight of his arm across her waist and the chill pressure of his body along her back. She slid free, tiptoed to the door, crossed the landing to the lavatory, sat to relieve herself, listened to a surreal silence, raised the blackout curtain a fraction, saw daylight and snow falling, the street already white.

  She went back into the drawing-room to find her shoes lying by the fire and put them on.

  ‘Evelyn,’ she said, remembering his name. ‘Evelyn, it’s snowing.’

  She shook his arm; it fell slackly away from him. She touched his face with the back of her hand, held her breath, heard none of his, saw that he was dead.

  Five minutes? Ten? A moment later? She tiptoed onto the landing. Listened.

  The mahogany banisters led down to the hall. She leaned on them, lifted her feet, swooped, once, twice, sliding down into the hall, opened the front door and let herself out.

  In the train Jonty leaned back in his corner seat and stretched his legs as the compartment emptied of uniformed figures, all bent towards the same camp. His destination and Francis’s was half an hour further on. They could talk now that the carriage was empty, Jonty thought. He leaned forward to open a window, let in some air, rid them of the smell of too many young men crushed into too small a space. ‘That’s better,’ he said.

  On the seat opposite Francis was staring at nothing, pale eyes vacant, face expressionless. Could the thoughts crowding Francis’s brain be similar to his own? Would Francis mock if he suggested that it might have been better if, for their very first assay, they had found someone with experience? Would Francis admit to having had a fear, identical to his own, of mockery? To have been laughed at by some strange woman would have been horrible, and belittling; at least that pitfall had been avoided. They had managed without experience. But he was pretty sure Francis would agree that some degree of experience would have helped.

  It was strange how silence seemed to enshroud the past twenty-four hours, making it difficult to talk; it was somehow not possible now to discuss their joint adventure. Surely one of the most important things that could happen to a man need not be private from one’s most intimate friend, one’s cousin? Yet it seemed to be so. Jonty sighed, opened his mouth to speak, closed it, crossed and recrossed his legs.

  Perhaps Francis thought it had all gone well? Perhaps, in his opinion, they had not taken advantage? Or perhaps Francis assumed that, because she was in love with them, everything was all right, they had not gone too far? Was it possible Francis’s mind was not crammed with niggling regrets? Could it be that Francis was not afraid that their ignorance and clumsiness had put her off? Not that she had known how ignorant they were. No, Francis would probably say, were they to speak of it, that if they had managed to latch on to some experienced lady they would have risked a dose of clap; they had received so many warnings. It could be that in Francis’s opinion they had managed very well, their spur of the moment decision had been masterly. Anyway it was over now, what had been done was done, she was in love with them, wasn’t she? Jonty glanced at his cousin and glanced away.

  On the opposite seat Francis muttered, stood up, made his way out of the carriage and along the corridor to the lavatory. Unbuttoning his flies he noticed that his penis was sore, and thought, ‘What we did was crude and rough.’ He made his way back to the carriage, said, ‘We shall be there in a few minutes,’ reached up to the rack for his luggage, was inspired to say something consolatory to Jonty, could find nothing. He would have liked to say, ‘She’s been our toy, but not any more. We should not have shared,’ but Jonty might think him sentimental. Jonty might laugh.

  TWO

  VIOLET MARLOWE STILLED THE clatter of her alarm clock and in the ensuing silence waited five minutes before getting out of bed. Last night’s raid had been fiendishly noisy, yet she had managed five hours’ sleep, a small but important victory to be savoured. She had, too, slept without stuffing her ears with cottonwool, another plus. It was amazing what one could get used to, given a bit of gumption.

  On the floor above boards creaked as her lodgers padded about. Presently they would tiptoe downstairs, gather up their overcoats and gas masks, wheel their bicycles into the street, close the front door and pedal off to breakfast at their club on their way to their offices in Whitehall: John Baines, limping from a wound received on the Somme, to the War Office; Bill Bailey wheezing from mustard gas, the contact never clearly explained since he had served in the Navy, to the Admiralty.

  Congratulating herself on their consideration and tact, Violet pulled back her curtains and, looking out into the snowy square, noticed the narrow lines which marked the bicycles’ passage towards the Brompton Road.

  John and Bill, while not exactly boring, were certainly reliable; they had been friends of her husband Dennis, killed in 1918. Their wives were confident that, lodging with Violet, they would stay clear of mischief, while she for her part was grateful for unobtrusive masculine company during the raids. Though none of them was craven enough to shelter in the basement, should a bomb fall uncomfortably close, one or other might call out something along the lines of, ‘Bad shot, Jerry,’ or, ‘Close shave, that one,’ or even, ‘Anybody feel like a drink, hot or cold?’ should they be awake.

  Running her bath, Violet remembered that both men had returned the night before from weekending in the country with their families, bringing garden produce not yet unpacked and put away; this she must do before setting off to her work for the Red Cross. With this in mind she bathed quickly, dressed in her uniform skirt and blouse and, carrying her jacket, went down to the basement. There, hanging her jacket on the back of a chair, she set the kettle to boil for coffee and examined the contents of the country hampers.

  Both Eleanor Baines and Joan Bailey had sent eggs, Eleanor’s brown, Joan’s white; there were vegetables, sprouts, potatoes and beetroot, boring but seasonal, and surprisingly, since neither woman kept a cow, a luscious lump of yellow butter weighing a good two pounds. This, thought Violet as she stowed it in her refrigerator, hinted at hanky-panky if not Black Market, but ‘Who am I to question?’ she said out loud as she made herself coffee and sat to munch a bowl of cereal.

  Hardly had she swallowed a mouthful when the doorbell rang. She e
xclaimed, ‘Blast!’, pushed back her chair, put on her jacket and went upstairs. ‘Goodness,’ she said on opening the door, ‘it’s Juno! What are you doing here? I thought you were in Canada.’

  ‘How smart you look in uniform.’ Juno stepped back, feeling unwelcome. ‘Did you have it specially made?’

  ‘Of course, I don’t believe in off the peg. But don’t just stand there, it’s been snowing, come in. Just look at your feet! Why can’t you girls wear sensible shoes?’ She drew her niece into the hall and shut the door. ‘You must be freezing.’ When had she last seen the girl? Ages. She looked white, tired too. ‘Come in,’ she repeated, leaning forward to kiss her niece.

  ‘I came’—cautiously Juno returned the kiss, noting her aunt’s scent, Elizabeth Arden’s Blue Grass—‘to see you, I … You smell delicious,’ she said.

  ‘I understood you were joining your mother in Canada,’ Violet quizzed her uninvited relation. ‘I am off to work, you have only just caught me, I was eating my breakfast. Have you had breakfast? Like some coffee?’

  ‘Coffee would be heavenly.’ Juno followed her aunt.

  ‘These days we eat in the kitchen.’ Violet strode down the hall. ‘I encouraged the maids to join up.’

  Juno said, ‘Oh. And did they?’

  ‘Cook is making Spitfires but Bridget, you remember Bridget?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, Bridget went back to her family in Cork, said the war had nothing to do with her, that she was a Fenian, if you please.’

  Juno laughed. ‘And is she?’

  Violet said, ‘How would I know? Help yourself to coffee and tell me why you are not in Canada.’

  Juno poured herself coffee and, sitting opposite her aunt, drank, closing her eyes and shivering. It had been so cold walking through the snow, her feet were numb. ‘I don’t want to go,’ she said.

  Violet had been eating All Bran when Juno rang the bell; it had now grown soggy but would, she told herself, still do its job. She must not throw it away, not in time of war. Juno looked awful. What was the matter? The girl was watching her.

  ‘I suffer,’ she said, ‘from constipation, this stuff is supposed to help. It tastes of cardboard.’

  Juno smiled and swallowed coffee. The girl needed help, talking about constipation was not exactly helpful. How should one talk to girls? Being childless, one didn’t know how to start. One was afraid of being clumsy. John and Bill would know, they both had girls, not as old as Juno, but girls.

  ‘So you don’t want to go to Canada, but would rather join one of the services? Do your bit? That it? Am I guessing right?’

  What had the girl been up to? How old was she? Seventeen?

  ‘You are too young to get a commission but I’m sure I can help, you had better join the Wrens. I do know of some splendid girls who have become FA.N.Y.s, but there again it’s officers only and again you are too young. Tell you what, we’ll discuss it with my lodgers, John Baines and Bill Bailey, old friends. They work in the War Office and the Admiralty, they will know what the form is, what strings to pull. Are you sure you won’t eat anything? Did I offer? How awful of me. Would you like an egg?’ (I am making a dog’s breakfast out of this.) ‘Poached or boiled? Scrambled?’

  ‘No, no, Aunt Violet, just coffee, it’s lovely.’ Juno wondered what had possessed her, what crazy impulse had landed her here at Aunt Violet’s mercy.

  ‘So which service shall it be? I work for the Red Cross, but I can’t see you there somehow. Mine is executive work, of course.’

  ‘I don’t want to join any of the services, Aunt Violet’ Juno’s eyes met her aunt’s.

  ‘Don’t tell me you take after your father!’ Violet was aghast.

  ‘What do you mean, Aunt Violet?’

  ‘My dear, he was a conchie.’

  ‘I am proud of him.’ Juno bristled. ‘He was a brave man.’ She put her cup back onto its saucer.

  ‘My dear girl, he went to prison!’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Prison!’

  ‘Where he contracted TB, which later killed him.’

  ‘Ignominiously.’

  ‘Was there not ignominy in the trenches? I barely knew my father but I admire him. He did not believe in violence.’

  ‘What would you know about it? He was influenced by that awful man, Lord Russell.’

  ‘May I have some more coffee?’

  ‘Help yourself.’ Violet stared at her niece. ‘Have I got this right? You do not want to join your mother in Canada and you do not want to work for your country in time of war. I simply don’t understand you.’ If Dennis had not been killed, if Dennis had lived and they had had children—‘a pigeon pair’ Dennis had wanted, what a curious old-fashioned expression—if one of this ‘pair’ had been a daughter, would she, Violet, have been able to cope? Violet stared at her niece while envisaging Dennis’s daughter; she surely would have wanted to fight for her country? Juno with lowered lashes was pouring coffee; her hand was not steady. Some splashed into the saucer and she added milk.

  Violet pushed the sugar bowl towards her niece. ‘Sugar.’

  ‘No, no, thank you.’ The coffee was good but her feet were still numb with cold.

  ‘So why are you here?’ Violet heard herself ask. ‘Are you short of money?’

  ‘I wondered whether you would let me have a bath. I have some money, thank you. I was caught in the raid last night, I missed my train back—I feel so filthy. There was a man who died, at least I think that’s what he did, I took it he was dead, I—’

  ‘Oh, my dear! Oh, you poor child! How stupid I am rambling on—why didn’t you say? You have had a shock. Now finish your coffee and come upstairs. You shall have a bath and I will put you to bed in the spare room with an aspirin. You’ll feel much better after some sleep. I have to go to work but I will be back tonight and then, after supper, we can discuss your future. Bill and John will be here and they will help, they have girls of their own. Come along, seeing a man killed is no joke—’

  ‘He wasn’t, I didn’t, he—’

  Juno, don’t worry, tell me about it tonight. Between us we will sort you out.’

  ‘But Aunt—’

  ‘Not now, Juno, later, come along.’ Violet put her arm round her niece and led her upstairs. ‘Now let’s find you a clean towel and if you want to wash your hair, there’s shampoo. Everyone caught in a raid gets dusty. There’s plenty of bath water—’

  ‘But I wasn’t, there wasn’t a bomb.’

  ‘Of course there was, I can see it all, you are disorientated. We see lots of this in the Red Cross. Rest is what you need—’

  ‘Could you lend me a pair of clean knickers?’

  ‘Why yes, of course.’ Had the girl peed from fright? People did, one heard of it, but Juno was ‘family’, could she have? ‘Here we are.’ They had reached the bathroom. Violet turned on the taps. Juno began to undress. ‘I’ll fetch you some knickers.’

  Violet plumped up the pillows of the spare-room bed, pulled the curtains and, finding a pair of knickers she had bought in a sale before the war, meant to change because they were too small but never got round to it, returned to the bathroom. Juno had left the door open and was submerged in the bath. Her clothes, scattered on the floor, looked dry except for shoes lamentably sodden. Violet said, ‘You can keep these, they are too small for me.’

  ‘Thank you very much, Aunt Violet.’

  Lying there in the bath, her wet hair clinging to her skull, Juno reminded Violet of her brother; he too had been long and thin, but fair-haired where Juno was dark. ‘You have not told me what you were doing in London.’

  ‘I came in for the day, missed my train back. I have to go back to collect my suitcase, it’s still in the cottage.’

  ‘But your mother’s gone to Canada, she wrote—’

  ‘Yes. The cottage is let to other people.’ Juno closed her eyes. ‘This water’s lovely.’ She felt she could lie in it for ever, forget and forget. But her aunt was speaking, enunciating carefully, ‘
Is your mother going to marry that man?’

  ‘I did not know you knew about him.’

  ‘She made no secret. What do you think she went to Canada for?’

  ‘To escape the war?’

  Was the girl being pert?

  ‘Your mother would not run away.’ Juno’s mother, her sister-in-law, whatever else, was, Violet intimated, no conscientious objector. ‘I think she has decided to marry again. The man is rich, got some sort of business.’

  ‘He has a name.’ Though not fond, Juno felt protective towards her parent.

  ‘Jack something.’

  ‘Sonntag.’

  ‘German.’

  ‘Might be Dutch?’

  ‘Possibly,’ Violet conceded. ‘Do you approve of him as a step-father?’

  ‘Mother likes him. Personally I don’t care if I never see either of them again.’

  ‘Juno! What an unnatural thing to say!’

  ‘No more unnatural than admiring your brother, my father, and desperately wanting—’ (oh so desperately wanting Jonty and Francis). Juno sank down into the water to hide a rush of tears. Coming up to breathe, she said, ‘You are being so very kind, Aunt Violet, considering you do not really like me.’

  Violet breathed in, held her breath, let it out. ‘You are my niece, of course I like you, blood is thicker than water.’

  ‘What a remarkably silly expression that is,’ she would say later that night, when regaling John Baines and Bill Bailey with an account of Juno’s visit. ‘The very fact that a person is a relation can be irritating. If she were not my niece, I am sure I would like her more. She looks like my poor brother. I could never approve of his ideas, they were so—well—embarrassing.’

  Munching a Brussels sprout, for they were at supper, Bill Bailey said, ‘Perhaps it’s as well she left before you got back from work.’

  Violet said, ‘No, Bill dear, no. I feel I should have stayed. I could have rung the office, told them to manage without me. I could have reasoned with her.’

  John Baines said, ‘Girls like that do not see reason, it’s a waste of breath.’