And there was Councillor Vernon Greenaway.
Vern Greenaway was the owner of a large wholesale and retail newsagents and tobacconists in Markham, and had for years been an openly card-carrying member of USDAW. Vern Greenaway, because he owned a thriving business but was nevertheless one of Markham’s Comrades, was incomprehensible to Freddy Hardy. Vern was shrewd and likeable and said quite openly, ‘If this war comes, Hardy’s will be unionized and he won’t be able to stop them. It’s our big chance, it will mean Comrades and Brothers will be everywhere.’
Freddy Hardy, as though possessing an inalienable right to take over any public event in Markham, had brought the members of his household along. Connie Hardy and daughter Eve sat at the top table, so did Nanny Bryce, awkwardly because she was really from the Station End of town and would have felt more at home sitting alongside somebody like Vern whom she had quietly voted for, even though she had been sent to the polling station in a blue-ribboned car.
Seated at what might appear to be the Opposition end with Vernon Greenaway were Sam Partridge, wearing his Labour Party badge; some pinkishly political people such as Rechabites and Free Church; Georgia Kennedy, who did not appreciate that she had aligned herself with Markham’s rebels; and Nick Crockford. ‘Nick!’ Surprise and delight in her voice. She had not seen him since she married. His was the most familiar and friendly face in the Town Hall. The Crockfords had for years been close neighbours of the Honeycombes. Nick and Georgia had grown up together in Emberley village: Robert Crockford and his son on Roke Acre, a roomy cottage with land to suit its name, and Alice and Thomas Honeycombe and their daughter in the village pub.
He smiled and squeezed her shoulders familiarly. ‘Well then, Georgia Honeycombe, what are you up to this morning?’
A moment of elation. To do with knowing that he still thought of her as Georgia Honeycombe. ‘I might ask you the same thing. I shouldn’t have thought this was at all your cup of tea.’
He raised his eyebrows, ‘Ah well, we all get surprises at the strange brews our best friends get a taste for.’
Georgia Kennedy blushed.
‘You shouldn’t have married him, Georgia Honeycombe.’
‘Nick! Do you mind just keeping your voice down.’
He grinned, and there came the same sudden transformation of his face that she had known since she was two years old and they had first played together in a pile of road grit. Solemn concentration, then the switch-on of his bright open smile.
‘See, you know I’m right. You didn’t say, “Don’t be so ridiculous, Nick Crockford,” only, “Keep your voice down. ” I can speak the truth so long as nobody overhears.’ He stooped, resting his large and practical hand on her shoulder, and whispered in her ear, ‘You shouldn’t have married the old stuffed shirt, Georgia Honeycombe.’
She had not seen him since she married. Then he had been a youth not yet twenty, now he was a man. He had always looked like his father, and the resemblance now that he was grown was striking. Prematurely grey in his early twenties, outdoor skin, long straight nose, straight eyebrows beneath a lined forehead and straight-lidded eyes. There was in his face a fascinating combination of youth and age – almost white hair with a young man’s face.
‘How is Mr Crockford?’
‘He seems better. He’s writing a lot for the Herald and Reynolds News – I’ll bet you don’t see those papers in the Captain’s house.’
‘I’m glad. I’ve often wondered how he is.’
‘You should go and see him. He’s always liked you, you could sweet-talk him.’
Georgia felt guilty that she had let the months and years go by without once going back to Emberley to visit Robert Crockford.
‘I keep intending to.’
‘Go then.’
As a small child Mr Crockford had been no more strange to her than most adults. If he was strange, then it was because he chose to live as reclusive a life as was possible as a widowed father. He had come home from France in 1918 almost white-haired.
‘I’m surprised that the Captain trusted you to come here on your own. I didn’t have him down as a chap who delegates anything – especially to a slip of a girl.’
Goaded by the jibe, Georgia asked what she did not want to know. ‘How’s Nancy? And… it’s a little boy, isn’t it?’
‘That’s right – Pete, he’s two. A real little bugger, actually.’
Even though Georgia had let Hugh sweep her off her feet when she was still only seventeen, it had been crushing to hear that Nick Crockford was living with Nancy Miles. At the time Georgia had expected that Nick’s heart would have broken; instead of which he had been getting Nancy Miles pregnant.
The sound of the gavel brought the meeting to order.
Freddy Hardy, in his usual no-nonsense way, went straight into what he had to say. Georgia liked that. And the man himself. Attractive. Yet he was almost bald. Yes, attractive in the way that Nick was. The hair – or lack of it in the alderman’s case – and a sensuous, handsome face. They both had the same straight mouth, thin top and full bottom lip. The same broad brows above observant eyes, the same serious expression that could snap into amusement. It occurred to her that they both enjoyed being who they were, and doing what they were doing.
As he spoke, one got the impression that he was addressing each person individually. Georgia caught his direct gaze several times.
Nick leaned towards her and whispered, ‘He eats nice little housewives on toast.’
Georgia put on her mother’s mouth and wrote the date on her notepad.
Freddy Hardy’s voice, commanding and confident. ‘You all know why you’re here – if you don’t, then read the notes that were sent you. There’s going to be a war – make no mistake about it… What I plan to do is to head an organization of responsible bodies so that in an emergency there won’t be any shilly-shallying about. I shall know whose responsibility any particular job will be.’
‘Point of Order.’
Freddy Hardy’s eyes glittered at his old adversary. ‘Councillor Greenaway?’
Vern Greenaway, establishing something or other by remaining seated with his chair balanced on its two back legs in a manner unbecoming to the linenfold panelling of the Council Chamber, spoke. ‘For a start, Fred Hardy, you needn’t call me Councillor, this is not a Council meeting – it an’t even an official meeting as far as I can tell – so let’s dispense with any of that sort of argy-bargy.’
‘Hear, hear!’ called Sam Partridge.
The meeting tightened its collective buttocks in anticipation of a clash of horns of the well-known political adversaries.
‘First off, Fred Hardy… everybody in this room knows everybody else – a lot of us went to school with each other. I say we make this meeting informal, because if we don’t then we know who will have all the say, and we shan’t hear from the people who matter because they’ll be afraid to speak out of turn. And you needn’t look like that, because I include myself alongside you when it comes to having a lot of gab.’
Laughter, and a slight shuffling of feet, murmurs that might mean agreement or dissension but certainly interest, certainly excitement as the many eyes turned to the Chair.
‘What’s the point of order… Mister Greenaway?’
Jokily, in the manner of kids asking, ‘Who said you could have first go with the bat?’
‘Well, for a start, who said you could be Chairman? This isn’t Council Business.’
‘Point taken.’ Genially, ‘I’ve no objections.’ Confidently. ‘I’ll take nominations for Chairman… I take it you’ve no objection to that, Mister Greenaway?’
Open-handed, Vern Greenaway said, ‘I trust you to do it with your usual efficiency.’
The Anglican Vicar proposed, ‘As you are our senior alderman, Councillor Hardy, I propose that you keep the Chair.’
‘Seconded.’ From a few of the faithful.
‘Any more nominations?’
‘Yes!’ Nick Crockford rose to his full six
-foot-six by forty-four chest which nobody in the room could match. Georgia crossed her legs away from him in an unconscious denial of association.
His voice was deep and his vowels accentuated Hampshire. ‘I propose Mr Greenaway and…’ an emphatic pause, ‘I propose a secret ballot – not a show of hands.’
There was a moment’s rigid silence from the delegates.
‘Very well… friend. We’ve always done these things in the old way… an open and above-board sort of way but… so be it. Any more nominations?’
There were not. Enough is enough, any more names in the ring would have doused the spark that was about to set light to the excitement that had been rising like petrol fumes since Vern Greenaway first interposed.
Eyebrows were raised, and ‘Secret’ hissed its way up and down the rows of representatives. What would happen to democracy if the great and good who held the reigns of power could not see how votes were cast?
What would happen was infiltration by uncomfortable people like Vern Greenaway who brought politics into local government when it had always been run very nicely without political controversy the Tory way.
However, Freddy Hardy was certain enough of his people to give them a charming smile and offer tea or coffee in the Mayor’s Parlour whilst the ballot was arranged. Also it would give him time to find out about that great hulk.
In the Mayor’s Parlour, there was a loud and excited buzz of conversation – even a few laughs and giggles. Nick continued to keep close to Georgia whilst they awaited the voting papers. Vern Greenaway, his clever eyes glinting at the unexpected turn of events, descended upon Nick and Georgia with a tray of tea and biscuits. He nodded at her and then at Nick. ‘I know you, don’t I? Isn’t it your father who did that little book of poems against war?’
‘My dad would prefer them to be called poems for peace instead of against war. There’s a difference.’
‘Ah, I can see there is. Good chap, Robert Crockford, pity he won’t take part in local politics – we need him. You two know each other already, then.’
‘Yes,’ said Georgia, ‘since we were children. We both came from Emberley village, born next door to one another.’
‘Did you now? I never realized that you was an Emberley girl.’
‘Georgia was Emberley Queen of the May in 1935 – before she became an officer’s lady. That right, Georgia?’
Vern Greenaway sensed the air crackle between them.
‘Nineteen thirty-six, actually,’ and Georgia bent over her teacup.
Hello, hello, thought Councillor Greenaway, there’s something there or I’m a Dutchman. ‘You keeping well, Mrs Kennedy? How’s that man of yours? He’s gone for a soldier then?’
She sensed rather than saw Nick’s reaction.
‘Yes, he’s in the Regular Army now.’
‘Well, well… a real officer’s wife you are now then. How does it feel, being one of the toffs?’
Georgia laughed. ‘Much the same as ever. Hugh was always the officer-type, even in the Terries.’
‘Ah well, the Terries will have knocked some of the corners off him. Did you know my Davey’s hoping to get himself transferred – he wants to be a sub-mariner.’ He transferred his attention to Nick. ‘And which of Markham’s 101 clubs do you represent here? No, don’t tell me,’ he tapped Nick’s broad chest, ‘Swimming? Athletics?’
At that moment somebody dropped a biscuit tin, and it was not certain whether it was Nick’s voice or the clatter that created the moment of silence in which Nick’s voice was heard clearly and a little tetchily, ‘Nothing so important – I’m a member of my Union, and I don’t represent anybody but myself.’
Freddy Hardy heard, and looked across the room at the great hulk who didn’t want a show of hands. TGWU? Where did he spring from? Partridge the park-keeper, harmless and a safety-valve for the local agitators. Greenaway, not so harmless, and now this one. The Markham Reds must be coming out of the woodwork, and would have to be watched. He looked across the room at the great hulk and guessed that there was a man who would break rather than bow the knee.
Connie Hardy looked across the room at the great hulk and undressed him behind her usual expression at public functions of ennui.
Eve Hardy looked across the room at the great hulk, and saw a tall, broad man who was very attractive but nowhere near as desirable as the neat sailor she longed for.
Georgia Kennedy looked at the great hulk and wished momentarily that her parents had never given her manners, or piano lessons, or a course in secretarial studies and a respectable neat and tidy life. We had a lot of good times together.
Georgia turned round to put her cup and saucer on a side-table, Freddy Hardy held back from doing the same with his own cup.
‘Allow me.’ He took the cup from her. He smiled. ‘I shan’t say, “Don’t I know you?” because had I met you before this morning, I should certainly not have forgotten.’ He took her hand which he held absent-mindedly whilst she introduced herself. He had the knack, when he wished to do so, of making people, specially women, feel that he was interested only in them. A warm, dry, firm hand that casually moved so that the ball of his thumb pressed the palm of her hand whilst his fingers moved over her knuckles. It was not a friendly action – too sensuous for that.
‘What I came across to say was that we shall be having a kind of buffet-supper up at The Cedars next week. Why don’t you come?’
‘Yes, why don’t I?’ Georgia said. ‘It seems ages since I had an evening out.’
Whilst most of Markham were intimidated by his wealth and power, Georgia was not. Without realizing that it had done so, the seventeen years of being daily with Nick Crockford had given her an insight into clever and sensuous men. She looked down at her hand, which he immediately released, turning his attention to Nick who said politely, ‘Excuse me, I’ve got to find the Gents.’
When the meeting reassembled, and the result of the ballot was read out, Freddy Hardy put on a good show of a man who was relieved not to have to clutter up his important days with any more of Markham’s problems, and when Vern took the Chair, the senior councillor, pleading a Board Meeting he had been neglecting for the sake of the town, left the room. Then the meeting got under way. The Clarion man, who had missed the fun of the first half, was now writing fast shorthand for his paper, and got himself elected Secretary.
Now that there seemed to be a sense of abandonment in the air, people allowed the old bastions to crumble and proposed one another for positions left, right, and centre with no regard to allegiance to Party or Faith. However, two walls appeared not to tumble easily, those of Class and Gender.
Somehow, even in spite of the earlier bit of applied democracy, people seemed reluctant to abandon entirely the safe caves they had always known. And the women knew their place.
Clerical positions went mostly to the class who lived in Mont Iremonger’s delivery area, and the physical or tedious work finished up with the station-enders of Charlie Partridge.
Jobs that needed command, attendance at meetings or signatures on forms went to men, whilst domestic work, such as cooking, comforting, succouring and organizing foster-parents for evacuees, went to the women.
The morning wore on. People sat with bits of paper on which were details of their new posts and ‘Responsibilities in Emergency or Time of War’.
Vern announced that there was a government scheme for nationwide public restaurants. Large premises in the town centre were needed.
‘I should like to volunteer the Old Mission Hall.’ The Anglicans got in first, foreseeing that money would have to be spent on buildings commandeered by the government.
A sub-committee was arranged.
A lady, tweedish even though it was warm, said, ‘I should like to propose Mrs Hardy to chair the meeting.’
Vern Greenaway looked at Connie, who said graciously, ‘Actually, I think I shall be occupied with Red Cross work, but of course I’ll do what I can.’
Again Nick Crockford rose. ‘If t
he lady doesn’t think she wants to do it, then I nominate the representative of the Cricket Club.’
A little snicker ran round the room.
‘Cricket Club? Ah, you mean Mrs Kennedy, who’s here representing her husband – Markham’s best cricket captain in years.’
‘We have two nominations.’
‘No… really,’ said Connie Hardy, ‘I should prefer to withdraw. I had planned to volunteer my services to the Red Cross…’
And so, with the Clarion reporter already assembling his headline, Markham’s preparations for Emergencies in Time of War were got under way.
The crowd spilled out into the Market Square and stood around Palmerston’s statue comparing their various wartime roles. Georgia had determined that she would not give Nick an inch, so she shook hands coolly and politely.
‘I have to go. Nice seeing you, Nick. I promise that I’ll go and see your dad.’
He held her hand just as the alderman had done, Nick’s way of showing her that he had not missed the incident. His hand was larger, harder and rougher, the bones of his long fingers familiar. She knew every line and muscle of this hand, had seen it change from a podgy implement for patting mud into the grit pile, to almost an extension of herself when he massaged her wrists aching from hours of picking in Emberley Estate’s commercial orchards.
When she looked down, he did not draw away as Freddy Hardy had done, but overlaid with his left hand too, ‘Ah, it’s good to see you, Georgia Honeycombe. You’ve become even more beautiful – and don’t take it as a compliment, people get the faces they’re born with.’
‘That’s nothing I don’t know already, Nick Crockford. Now, give me back my hand, I’ve got shopping to do.’ He put on a face of mock tragedy. ‘And when you’ve been in the Co-op with your little shopping basket, you’ll go home and pop on your little pinny and stand at your modern sink peeling potatoes and think to yourself, If I wasn’t the Major’s wife, I could have gone off with that Nick Crockford and tickled trout in the Bliss.’
The Consequences of War Page 6