Direct Hit

by Mike Hollow

  He paused, trying to find the right words.

  “What I’m trying to say is I’d like us to be friends.”

  Dorothy examined his face for a few moments, then replied gently.

  “I’d like us to be friends too, John.”

  CHAPTER 30

  Edward stirred his cup of coffee and placed the spoon carefully back on the white china saucer. The café was tucked away in a side street off St Martin’s Lane, not far from the Duke of York’s Theatre, and on a Saturday morning it was quiet and private. Whenever he had the opportunity to steal away to the West End, this was one of his favourite places, a secret refuge.

  “It’s like a breath of fresh air for me, you know, coming up here,” he said to the young man sitting opposite him. “There’s something about that horrible office that stifles the soul. It’s so…” He struggled to find the right word.

  “Venal?” said the young man.

  “Yes, that’s about right. We spend all our time haggling over the price for some miserable printing job, always worried about whether we’re making enough money to keep the business going. I suppose someone has to do that, but there’s just nothing noble about it. It’s all about money, nothing else. It was my father’s world, but I shudder at the thought of spending the rest of my life in it. I sometimes wish he’d never sent me to that school. I think it gave me unrealistic aspirations, or even expectations.”

  “It did rather train us to rule the world, didn’t it?”

  “Yes, and maybe that was all right for you, Stephen. You certainly seemed to sail through without a care in the world.”

  Stephen gave a hearty, good-natured laugh. Edward flashed a weak smile back to his friend. Stephen was tall and broad-shouldered, with fair hair that was thick and wavy. His open expression and insouciant smile gave an impression of a man at ease with himself. He was wearing an old corduroy jacket over an open-necked blue shirt, but even in this simple attire he seemed effortlessly to exude good taste. Edward thought he looked the picture of confidence. Stephen was the sort of person who always landed on his feet.

  “I envy you,” said Edward. “You always seem so bien dans ta peau. Ever since I’ve known you I’ve sensed that you’re happy to be who you are, and what you are seems to work. I constantly find myself forced to be what other people expect me to be instead of being who I am, and not really wanting to be who I am anyway.”

  “My word, that sounds complicated. It’s funny, you know: when we used to do those plays at school I always thought you’d be the one who ended up on the stage for a living, not me.”

  “That all seems a long time ago now. I thought everything was possible then, that I could be whoever I wanted to be. I suppose I didn’t know what severe constraints a lack of means can place on one’s aspirations. And now look at me: stuck in a grubby little office on the wrong side of town, printing leaflets and stationery for other grubby little businesses and watching my life slowly sliding down the drain.”

  “You poor chap. It’s odd how life works out, isn’t it?”

  “It’s the problem with having a family business. I envy people who don’t. At least they have some chance of choosing what to do.”

  “Yes. I’m sorry about your father, by the way.”

  “That’s very kind of you, but don’t worry. I think we’re over the initial shock now. My mother seems to be coping well, as far as I can tell. I never know quite what’s going on in her head, though. It’s strange, isn’t it? When you’re little, you never think about why your parents married each other – they’re just your parents, a fixed feature on the landscape. But for years now I’ve wondered what drew them together.”

  “Maybe it was the war,” said Stephen. “In my mother’s case I’ve always suspected she took the first available man that came along who still had all his limbs. Sounds an awful thing to say, but there was quite a shortage of men by the time the war finished, wasn’t there? I think there’s a whole generation of us with mothers who would probably have preferred to marry some other chap, only he was dead.”

  “I’m sure there’s something in that,” said Edward. “It’s not the kind of thing one’s mother talks about, though, is it? I must say she certainly hasn’t been displaying many signs of grief. But that’s a feature of their generation too, I suppose: stiff upper lip and all that.”

  “Definitely,” said Stephen. “But we should be grateful all the same. If they hadn’t married our fathers, we wouldn’t be here – or we might be here, but we’d be different fellows.” He slapped the table and laughed again, this time even louder than before. Edward glanced round the café. Stephen had always been an incorrigible extrovert, but Edward was nervous about attracting attention. He decided to change the subject.

  “Anyway, how are things for you these days? Are you keeping in work?”

  “Have to, dear boy,” said Stephen. “If you’re out of work in my profession for more than two weeks at a time they’re liable to call you up. I’ve been lucky so far. We all thought we were finished last year when the theatres were closed down, of course, but once the government got its nerve back and allowed us to open, everything improved enormously.”

  “But you’re not opening during these air raids, are you?”

  “No. A purely temporary problem, I hope. Since last weekend I believe the only theatre that’s still open is the Criterion at Piccadilly Circus, but that’s mainly underground, so it doesn’t count. It’s been taken over by the BBC for variety broadcasts, which is not exactly my line of work anyway. I’m hoping we’ll all be able to open again as soon as this blows over.”

  This time it was Edward who laughed.

  “Ever the optimist, eh? Do you really think the war will end any time soon?”

  “Haven’t the faintest idea, old chap,” said Stephen. “But it’s a free country, as they say, so I can think what I like. The whole affair is so damnably miserable that I choose to think it will all be over by Christmas and we’ll be frolicking on those broad, sunlit uplands that Churchill talked about in the summer. If I’m wrong, well, I won’t have lost anything and I won’t have done any harm to anyone else.”

  “I wish I could take it all in my stride like that. In my brighter moments I know I would swap my world for yours at the drop of a hat. But then I think I worry too much to live the way you do.”

  “But to take a more positive view of the situation, you do at least have what some people call a proper job. There must be some advantages in that. Having that elusive thing called a salary, for example.”

  Edward sipped the last of his coffee and put the cup down. The café was beginning to fill with people now that lunchtime was approaching.

  “I suppose I should be grateful,” he said, “but sometimes I think I’d rather have nothing and be free. The people at work know I’ve only got the job because I’m the boss’s son. I don’t think they take me seriously.”

  “I don’t think anyone’s ever taken me seriously,” said Stephen. “But then I don’t take myself seriously either – nor anyone else for that matter.”

  “That’s all right for you, but you’ve had the freedom to choose. Don’t you see? All my life my father has tried to control me, to make me be what he wanted me to be. I’ve had to live a lie.”

  “I’m sorry, Edward, I shouldn’t be so flippant. I do understand what you’re saying.”

  “He pushed me and pushed me, about as far as he could. There’s only so much a man can take.”

  Stephen could see the anguish in Edward’s face. He leaned forward and lightly touched Edward’s arm.

  “But he’s gone now, Edward.”

  Edward looked his friend in the eye and calmed his voice.

  “Yes,” he said. “He’s gone. And now I’m going to start making my own choices.”

  CHAPTER 31

  A cloud broke in the leaden sky. Soft spots of rain began to fall, marking their landing with dark splatters in the dust at their feet. The breeze picked up, rustling the leaves of the t
ree at their backs. Dorothy shivered and pulled her light jacket more closely round her. She decided it was time to break the silence between them.

  “It’s raining,” she said. “I hope that little car of yours isn’t going to get all wet inside.”

  “No,” he said, “the roof’s up. I looked at the sky this morning and didn’t want to chance it.”

  “Is it time to eat yet? I’m getting hungry.”

  “Yes. Would you like to go right now?”

  “Sure. But you still haven’t told me where we’re going.”

  “Don’t worry, it’s not far from here. It’ll be a cultural experience. Let’s go quickly, before we get wet.”

  They rose from the bench and left the churchyard, then walked briskly down the street together, Jago leading the way. Within a few minutes they came to a row of small shops, where he stopped. The shower was already fading, the clouds moving on.

  “Here we are,” he said.

  “This is it?”

  “It’s not quite the Savoy, I know, but it’s a chance for you to enjoy some authentic London cuisine.”

  On the pavement outside the shop there was a stall covered in metal trays, each of which contained a wriggling mass of eels. Dorothy gulped.

  “We’re not eating those, are we?”

  “No,” said Jago. “Although you can if you want to. What I had in mind was some nice old traditional pie and mash.”

  “Mash? Where I come from, that’s what farmers feed the cows with.”

  “No, it’s not as bad as that. Here it means mashed potato.”

  “Right. So we’re having a pie and some mashed potato. Is that it?”

  “Not quite. They serve it with liquor.”

  “Is that so? I should point out that I don’t normally drink this early in the day, especially with a pie and potatoes.”

  Jago laughed.

  “I’m sorry. I keep forgetting we speak different languages. This is not that kind of liquor. It’s a green sauce that they make from the juice they get when they stew the eels.”

  “The more I hear the worse it gets. I think I’d rather just have a stiff drink.”

  “Come on, you can’t visit the East End and not have pie and mash. Besides, it’ll give you something colourful to write about. You’ll love it.”

  He opened the door, and Dorothy followed him in. Inside, the shop was a long rectangle no more than fifteen feet across, but the mirrors on its white-tiled walls made it feel bigger. To Dorothy’s left, two aproned women stood behind a white marble counter, and the rest of the space was filled with fixed tables and straight-backed benches that reminded her of the church pews of her youth. She took in the sight.

  “Are you sure? There’s sawdust on the floor.”

  Jago laughed again.

  “That’s to make it easier to clear up when the customers have been spitting eel bones out onto the floor.”

  “You don’t say? Well, that is something I don’t think I’ve seen at the Savoy.”

  Jago took her to the counter, where one of the women put a pie onto a white plate, added a big spoonful of mashed potato, then poured onto it a generous ladleful of pale green sauce, speckled with chopped parsley. Jago handed this to Dorothy, then got the same for himself and paid.

  “Take a spoon and fork to eat it with,” he said. “You won’t need a knife. And put on as much salt, pepper, and vinegar as you like.”

  “You’ve got to be joking,” said Dorothy.

  After a few mouthfuls she seemed to be overcoming her initial aversion to the peculiar-looking liquor.

  “Not bad,” she said.

  “Is that the best you can say for it?”

  “No. The best I can say for it is that it tastes better than it looks, which is probably just as well for you.”

  “It’s the staple diet round here, you know. Nutritious and filling, and cheap enough for people to afford when they’ve barely got two ha’pennies to rub together.”

  “Well, as you say, it’s a cultural experience.”

  Jago took a mouthful of pie and chewed it reflectively.

  “So, tell me about Boston.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Just what it’s like. I’ve only been out of England once, remember, and that was to live in a hole in the ground in France. I imagine where you come from is very different to England.”

  “Not so very different,” said Dorothy. “Despite what you said, we speak the same language – more or less, I guess I should say – and we share a lot of history with you. I’m sure you know the War of Independence started in Boston, or just down the road. We’ve even got a Cambridge, just like you, right across the river, and a great university.”

  “Harvard?”

  “That’s right. Named after an Englishman, of course, who studied at your Cambridge.”

  “Did you study at Harvard?”

  “Oh no.” She laughed in a way that suggested she’d been asked this question before. “They don’t admit women students at Harvard. I was at Radcliffe College: it was set up for girls who were smart enough to pass the Harvard entrance examination but not smart enough to be men.”

  “So opportunities for women in the United States are not quite as expansive as you were suggesting when we met on Monday at the police station. Am I right?”

  “You’ve got me there,” said Dorothy, with another gentle laugh.

  She watched with curiosity as Jago applied vinegar to his pie.

  “What was it like growing up in Boston?” he said.

  “I guess I had quite a comfortable childhood. It was certainly a happy one. My dad was a writer, so we always had interesting people visiting the house, and he and my mom had a busy social life. When I was a little girl, probably only about four or five years old, I would see them going out to dinner somewhere in the evening, him in tails and a boiled shirt, and her in a pink satin gown and a wrap with ostrich feathers round her neck.”

  “A boiled shirt?”

  “Yes, one of those old white cotton shirt fronts. People used to put starch in them to make them stiff, and that meant they had to boil them.”

  “Very grand. I don’t move in such exalted circles.”

  “It was very grand indeed. I used to think they looked like a prince and princess, and that one day I’d grow up and have a life as wonderful and exciting as theirs.”

  “And did you?”

  “Well, I grew up, but you know, it never works out quite like you imagined. By the time I was old enough to go out for a social life of my own, it was pretty dull. The highlight of the week would be going to the afternoon tea dances at Shepard’s Colonial. They called it ‘afternoon tea concert and dansant’.”

  “Shepard’s Colonial?”

  “Shepard’s was a big department store on Tremont Street, just across from Boston Common. It only closed about three years ago. It had a restaurant upstairs, called the Colonial. It was a stylish establishment, but tea dances didn’t quite match up to the glittering balls I’d dreamed of.”

  Dorothy took another mouthful of pie and mash. She had not followed Jago’s advice about the salt and pepper and was finding the dish bland, so decided to take the plunge and scattered some across the plate. She drew the line, however, at vinegar. Jago watched her and smiled.

  “What was your home like?” he said.

  Dorothy found to her surprise that the salt and pepper had improved the flavour, so added some more. She finished her mouthful before speaking.

  “We lived in a neighbourhood called Back Bay. It used to be a real bay, but they filled some of it in back in my grandfather’s time and built a whole new district of the city, with fine houses and an art museum. We had what we call a row house. I think that’s what you call a terraced house, but it was nothing like those little things I’ve seen around the back streets of West Ham. These are big brownstone places, four or five storeys high, and only pretty wealthy people could afford them.”

  “So you’re one of those rich youn
g American women who travel the world looking for adventure?”

  “Adventure, yes, but rich, no. My parents inherited the house, and some money too, but not a pile. My dad was very determined that I should get out into the world and fend for myself, because he knew he couldn’t support me for ever. What he didn’t know, of course, was that come 1929, they’d lose almost everything in the Wall Street Crash. They had to sell the house and move into an apartment. The only money I have now is what I earn. My dad never made much from his writing anyway, but he gave me everything he could in life. He brought me up to take an interest in the world beyond Boston, and to care about people who are suffering too, whether it’s from poverty or from anything else. And here I am today, a war correspondent.”

  “Is he still alive?”

  “Yes, he is, and still writing, although not as much as he used to.”

  “And your mother?”

  “Her too. She’s a remarkable woman. She was widowed quite young and had to bring up a child on her own, then she remarried and had me. She didn’t work, of course, but she was very educated. The house was full of books for as far back as I can remember, and when I was a little girl I spent all my time reading. I guess that’s why I always wanted to be a writer, like my dad.”

  “So that part of the dream came true?”

  “Yes. I can remember it so clearly. Our house was only a few blocks away from Boston Public Library. My mother used to take me there sometimes. It has a huge staircase, all finished in butterscotch-coloured marble that gets lighter and pinker as it goes up. I used to get a book from the Children’s Room, then take it down and sit in one of the marble niches by the staircase reading it until she said it was time to go. Then sometimes we’d go to the Copley Plaza hotel and get a chocolate ice-cream soda. That library was amazing: the kind of place writers call a temple of learning. I used to spend hours in there.”

  “I used to spend hours in my local public library too, after I’d left school,” said Jago. “It wasn’t exactly a temple of learning, but it helped me to plug some of the gaps in my education. The trouble is, the older I’ve got, the more gaps I’ve found.”