The Forgotten

by Mary Chamberlain

  ‘What was that?’ her father said. ‘Did you drop something?’

  ‘It’s all right,’ Betty said. ‘I can see it.’ She reached down and scooped up the broken pieces, holding them in her hand.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Betty said. ‘A china button, that’s all.’

  ‘I’d like to see it.’ He held out his hand. ‘Please give it to me.’

  ‘I’m not a child,’ she said, turning on her heel, but he’d whipped round and grabbed her wrist, pressing the soft bones so she yelped and opened her fist. She could feel her father scrabbling at the pieces. He released his grip and she shook her hand.

  ‘That really hurt.’ Her eyes were stinging with tears. Her father was fingering the broken button in his palm, piecing it together.

  ‘Where did you get this?’

  ‘I bought it,’ she said.

  ‘Do you know what it is?’ His voice was full of rage.

  ‘Of course I know what it is,’ she said. ‘Why are you so angry?’

  He tossed his head back. ‘You understand nothing of the world.’

  ‘No.’ The valve inside her exploded. ‘You don’t understand. Do you know what these bombs do?’

  She never shouted, and never at her father. She could feel her heart beat, her stomach knot. ‘Look at Hiroshima,’ she said, her voice at full pitch. An ordinary bomb was bad enough, and she knew about those, fireballs, everything. ‘Hiroshima.’

  She sniffed loudly, pulled out her handkerchief and blew her nose hard.

  ‘Do you want the Russians here?’ There was spittle on his lip. ‘I thought,’ he added, his voice vibrating as he controlled his anger, ‘you’d learned your lesson with the Russians.’

  She stood, open-mouthed, speechless, a million memories hurtling, burning. Her breath came short, pelting in and out. She picked up her cup and threw it at him. The tea splashed on the ground but the cup flew past him, landing on the lawn, unbroken. She stood, hands clenching and unclenching, expecting him to leap up and shake her, but he sat, his lip curled, silent, superior.

  ‘It’s nothing to do with Russia,’ she said, after a minute or so. Her voice was low and she was swallowing hard, dollops of saliva threatening to choke her.

  ‘No? Where do you think these ban the bomb people get their money from?’ He narrowed his eyes, not waiting for her reply. ‘The Russians, that’s who. They want us to disarm. And then they walk all over us. Communism is a scourge.’ His voice was full of threat, fury. ‘Only the Germans saw that, had the courage to confront it.’ He paused, shaking his head, adding, ‘We were right all along.’

  Betty stood, words churning, but no sound came out. She didn’t want to hear what he had to say.

  ‘It was Germany who bore the brunt,’ he went on. ‘But that has been conveniently forgotten.’

  She thought she might hit him if he said another word. He’d wiped his slate clean, as if he had nothing to do with the history there’d once been. She stomped past him, picked up the teacup, brought it back and slammed it onto the tray.

  ‘You’ll be telling me next that if Germany had had the Bomb, Russia would never have invaded.’

  ‘I think as a matter of fact that they would have thought twice about it.’ He held out his hand, beckoning for Betty to come close, to take it. She stayed still. ‘Nobody wants nuclear war,’ he went on, his voice oily. ‘But until everybody destroys their weapons, it’s only common sense to be armed.’ He patted his pockets, pulled out his pipe and tobacco pouch. ‘That’s what our government thinks.’

  ‘But they’re wrong.’

  ‘Says who? A bunch of scruffy idlers?’ He shredded the tobacco, stuffed it into the bowl of his pipe, tamping it down. He pulled out his lighter, sucked on his pipe, drawing the smoke. She wanted to say, They’re not all idlers, they’re not all scruffy. They’re people like you, too.

  ‘You will never know the sacrifices I made.’ He was looking at her, his grey eyes unblinking, and she saw in him a sharper steel, a ruthlessness she’d not recognised before.

  ‘Is there more tea?’ He lifted the teapot, peered inside.

  ‘Make it yourself,’ Betty said.

  He drained the dregs into his cup. She left him to drink it, grabbed her keys and her bag and left, slamming the front door behind her.

  CHAPTER TEN

  London: July 1958

  Most of the customers were in their twenties, he guessed, Betty’s age. It was always packed and everyone seemed to know each other. Did people look at him, coming alone? Who’s that man? What does he want? He should bring Betty. He wondered if she knew the place. He was sure she’d like it, even if the coffee was undrinkable and the food for the most part weird and inedible. Borscht. What on earth was that? The Partisan Coffee House. He could sit here all day and nobody would care a toss. Goodness knows how it could ever make money. But there was plenty going on, jazz and skiffle, poetry and folk songs, literature and film. Politics, of course. Chess, in the basement. Library on the first floor. And on the top, the editors of Universities and Left Review.

  He pulled out his cigarettes and lit one. He hadn’t been sleeping. Every noise made him jump, put his teeth on edge – a desktop slammed, a bench pulled. He should go to the doctor, get some barbiturates to calm him down. They’d worked in the past.

  His name was Anatoly, or so he’d said. John hadn’t seen him again since that first visit. Sometimes he thought Anatoly was an apparition, a nightmare made flesh. But it wasn’t a ghost that had seeped through John’s skin. It was the essence of him, as if Anatoly lived inside him now.

  Kneeling down by her side, staring at the lesions on her neck. Her face. He couldn’t recollect her face, though he knew how cold it felt. In his mind he saw her body, but her features vaporised into the cloud of his memory. He had to remember her, even as she moved away and Betty came closer, became her, like a photograph with a double exposure. A love expanded. No. This was too soon. The shock remained, the touch of her. Dance with me, John. Dance. He’d watched as she disappeared in the dusk, as the torn trees of the Tiergarten became skeletons against the pink eiderdown of an evening sky.

  John had no idea what Anatoly wanted with him.

  He looked out of the window. The bombed-out house at the corner of the street had scaffolding and hoardings round it to keep the children out. The straggling tip of a buddleia could be seen above them, picking up nutrients from the ash. Were there buddleias in Hiroshima now, pushing through the fractured bricks, gorging on incinerated flesh? There’d been plenty in Berlin.

  He caught the eye of the stranger who seemed to run the place and smiled. He seemed so very young. They all did. Some might have done national service, but they hadn’t fought in the war and he admired them their conviction, envied their innocence. They’d never had their moral universe tested and shattered. Never had to tuck that murky past in their pocket, put on their civvies and pretend it never happened.

  He stood up, handing a copy of Tribune to the young man next to him.

  ‘Bit old, I’m afraid,’ he said, fishing for his wallet. ‘I recommend the chilli con carne.’

  As if he came here all the time.

  He put his hands in his pockets and set off for home, a quiet saunter on a sunny evening. He’d pick up some eggs and milk in the market, perhaps some veg and fruit if they were going cheap. It was the end of the day, after all. He was in no hurry. He’d do some marking and have a nightcap in the pub. He felt calmer now. Funny how his worries surged and drained, like a tidal river.

  He paused at the corner of his street and waited. It was empty. He looked behind him. No one he recognised. The museum was shut now, the crowds gone. No Anatoly. He fumbled in his pocket for his keys, but the door swung open. It was on the latch, unlocked. That was not how he had left it this morning. He always made a point of pushing the door after he shut it, to make sure. He’d have to tell his neighbour, Make sure you lock up. His bike was leaning against the wall inside the hall and he could
hear his neighbour practising. Bob Welham, a flautist, played with the LSO. He must be about to leave for the evening performance. Bob could wangle John into rehearsals at the Festival Hall in the holidays. John would sit in the stalls as the musicians went through their paces, cigarettes propped on their music stands, puffing between bars. John had no idea musicians smoked, though he supposed they were human too, even if the music they made was divine. Bob didn’t smoke.

  ‘Couldn’t blow the bloody thing if I did,’ he said. ‘Should have taken up percussion. Or the fiddle. They get through a whole packet, you know that, don’t you?’

  John climbed the stairs two at a time, jumping over the torn lino. He reached his landing, placed his key in the lock, turned it. He could feel his heart begin to hammer, sweat on his neck, the familiar dread. Why now? There was no rhyme or reason to his panic. This was his home, not a stranger’s. There was no sniper, no mangled boy, no live grenade. Perhaps his landlord had come in. He had a key, though he usually gave John warning. John took a deep breath, pushed the door wide open. There was an air of occupation, as if a ghost had wandered through leaving a scent of honeyed milk. Her.

  John grabbed his umbrella from the stand by the door. It wasn’t much of a weapon but it could parry a first blow, give him a head start. He kicked the door so it slammed against the wall. No one was hiding behind. He stepped into the sitting room, his umbrella in two hands like a rifle, eyes left, eyes right, scanning, searching. He was a soldier again, boots heavy and soiled. The shade on his standard lamp had been knocked askew, and the reading lamp lay on the floor. The newspaper on the table was crumpled, the books tipped off the shelf. He leaped forward, turned, no one behind, turned again, three paces, kicked open the bedroom door. The bed was as he had left it, the cord of his pyjamas showing beneath the pillow where he’d folded and tucked them. He sidled in, checked behind the door. His work jacket hung on the hook, next to his woollen dressing gown. He bent down, peered under the bed. Shoes, slippers, dust. No crouching form ready to spring.

  He walked back through the sitting room. He could taste the blood rust of iron as his stomach churned. He relaxed his hold on the umbrella, gripped it again. The door to the kitchenette was ajar so he pushed it open and let it bang against the wall. The muscles in his legs began to quiver.

  A bloodied hand had dragged along the window and over the sink and tiles behind it. It had wiped across the enamel top of his table and there was white stuff dribbled down its legs. John traced the trail across the room, poked it with his umbrella, not sure what it could be. The cups on the draining board had been knocked off, smashed on the floor, curved shards of blue china, a handle smeared with blood. Blood was spattered on the cupboard and on the twisted mesh door of the food safe. John looked behind him. The sitting room was empty. He held his breath, poked at the door of the safe, swung it open.

  A large black crow lay inside, its wings spread, flapping faintly. John felt the adrenalin drain, his legs lose their steel, his muscles their tension. He wanted to laugh. How stupid. It was only a bird. He dropped the umbrella and walked over to the safe, scooping the bird up. He could feel its tiny heart beating fast as a clock, could see the terror in its eyes. It was too faint to struggle, its neck too weak for its head. He should put it out of its misery but he hadn’t the courage. He cradled it, waiting for it to die. Private Nash’s hair had been as black as this crow, his blood and bile on John’s uniform, his slumped form held by John’s body.

  The bird went still. John carried it down the stairs, not sure what to do with it. There was nowhere to bury it, no soldiers coming up behind to take care of it. He placed it in the dustbin down in the area and turned back inside the house, climbing up, his knees trembling. That’s all it was. A dead bird. The thing had flown in, beaten itself against the window, flapped around in a panic until it sank into the food safe, exhausted, waiting to die, in pain, in terror.

  How had it got in? His windows were shut. Someone must have released it into his rooms. Someone with a key, or who could pick a lock. He groped his way towards the armchair and lowered himself into it. Off course. That’s what he was. Blown off course. He placed his head in his hands. Who had done this? Why?

  Anatoly. The lanky-legged Russian with the pockmarked face had the powers of the Devil.

  There was a movement in the grate. John jumped, cried out. He looked again. Soot had fallen on the hearth, feathers. Another bird, one wing jutting at an angle, was scrabbling to move. The chimney. They had come down through the chimney.

  A phone was ringing, but it was somewhere else. He was somewhere else.

  They made nests in chimneys. One crow took a wrong turning, flew down the stack, its mate following. There would be chicks up there, orphaned. Perhaps they’d fledged already.

  The bird lay still, its death throes done. There was always a simple explanation. That’s what his father would say. A car backfiring. Fireworks. A motorbike’s roar. Calm down, dear boy. Nothing to worry about. It’s all over.

  He’d have to clear up the mess. He reached over to the newspaper and carried it to the hearth, lifting the bird onto the paper, its body still warm, its feathers oily to the touch. He’d put it with the other one. Sorry, old bird. Nowhere to bury you. He went into the kitchen for the dustpan, steeling himself to open the cupboard door. There was blood on the handle. He wasn’t sure whether to clean the blood off first or fetch the bucket and the Vim. Scrub and scrub.

  ‘John.’ Someone was knocking hard at the door. ‘John. Phone.’

  He walked back through the sitting room, opened the door.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Bob said. ‘Are you deaf? I’ve been yelling for you. You have a call.’

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘How should I know? Take it, for heaven’s sake. I have to go.’

  He turned, ran down the stairs. John followed him. He felt sick. Too much adrenalin. It did that. Couldn’t disperse, that’s what the doctor had said, makes you nauseous. Bob was rushing out of the door, his flute case in one hand, music bag in the other.

  John tripped on the torn lino, grabbed the banister to save himself. He was still shaky, anxious. He knew the caller would have gone by the time he got to the phone. Knew it was Anatoly, up to his tricks. He walked into the booth. The receiver had been left hanging, and he picked it up.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  London: July 1958

  The telephone booth was smelly and hot and she pushed open the door with her foot. She was sure the operator would butt in at any moment, I’m sorry, caller, there is no reply. It never crossed her mind John could be out. She’d run out of the house, her bag under her arm, sprinted down the road, feet slipping in her flimsy sandals. She’d pulled them off, dashed across the road outside the station, bare feet slapping the pavements, her hand brushing a cyclist who pulled up and swore at her. She’d waved her shoes at him, sorry. The phone booth was occupied by a woman with curlers and a hairnet who was leaning against the glass, laughing. Betty hammered on the door.

  ‘An emergency.’

  The woman nodded. Betty saw her mouth I have to go, put the receiver down. She left the booth, glaring at Betty standing barefoot, hair awry, her blouse worked loose from her waistband.

  ‘Thank you,’ Betty said, no idea what to do except that she had to see John, be close to him, feel his breath and face, hear his voice. Sometimes he teased her, said her name the German way, Bette, Bette. She hadn’t told him, not about Germany. One day, perhaps. Not just yet.

  She was about to give up when a man answered. She knew it wasn’t John, but she said his name, all the same.

  ‘I’ll see if he’s in,’ he said. ‘Hang on.’ Of course, John had a neighbour.

  Minutes ticking.

  ‘Do you wish to continue, caller?’ the operator said. Betty had laid out her change on the top of the telephone box. She had one more shilling. Trunk calls were expensive, and John usually rang her back. If he didn’t answer now, then what? She didn’t want to go home, not with her f
ather in that mood. And she was angry. With her father, and his version of the war that held no one to account, least of all him.

  It was still early. She could go to London anyway. See a film, perhaps, get the last train. Dracula, if she dared. The evening was hot. She wouldn’t need to go back and fetch her cardigan. Her feet were filthy.

  ‘Insert more money, caller.’ She pushed the shilling into the slot. Please be there, John, please answer.

  The receiver clunked, as if it was being picked up by the cord and swung.

  ‘John Harris speaking.’ His voice was breathy, rushed.

  ‘John,’ she said.

  ‘Betty?’ He sounded puzzled, distracted, as if he was being interrupted.

  ‘Is this a bad time?’ They rang at a prearranged time each week, never spontaneously. Perhaps he was busy, about to go out, meet friends. Her stomach tightened, swallowing her disappointment. What if he had a girlfriend? A proper girlfriend, one he spent the weekends with, not snatched evenings on Mondays and Wednesdays. She hadn’t thought of that. She knew so little about his life, when she thought about it.

  ‘No.’ His voice was flat, uninterested. He wasn’t pleased to hear from her. She was deflated, humiliated even. She’d made a fool of herself. It was nonsense to think of John as a boyfriend. It was based on nothing. He was an older man, a mature man. A fantasy, a teenage crush.

  ‘I’m surprised, that’s all,’ he went on. ‘I didn’t expect to hear from you.’ Silence. A beat. She’d run out of money soon. She should make her excuses, ring off. ‘But I’m thrilled you called. What’s up?’

  His voice had warmed and lightened, and her spirits rose.

  ‘I…’ She hesitated, unsure now what to say, or how to say it. ‘I thought I might come into London this evening, that’s all. I just wondered…’ Was she being too forward? She always let him make the first move, apart from that first time, when she’d written to him. ‘Do you fancy a coffee or something?’ Added, ‘If you’re not doing anything, that is.’