He marched me right in, and no one said a word. Ale Mary wasn’t there, and when the warden—Harry—asked Mrs McIver, she told him she’d been taken to the first aid post. Then she pursed her lips and said, ‘Making the most of it, I’m sure,’ which made me smile.
I couldn’t get to sleep, though—I couldn’t get comfortable. And the worst was, every time I closed my eyes I’d get a picture of Edie lying there strangled, right up close to me with her eyes popping out, and then when I did drift off it was only a half sleep, with Edie’s and Mary’s faces coming in and out, heads on sticks being pushed in front of me, with the teeth come loose so their top sets were moving up and down but the lips weren’t going with them, so it was just the teeth and gums by themselves…horrible.
I came awake with a jolt, just before midnight—didn’t want to go back to sleep again after that, even though I was that tired, I was aching all over. I can just imagine what those old cats would say about Edie: serve her right, she was asking for it—as if anyone could deserve that. Like saying they deserve a bomb. Mind you, what me and Lily were saying only this afternoon, Edie was daft, she didn’t take enough care…but that was true, what we said: if you don’t look out for yourself there’s no one else to do it for you, not unless they’re after something in return.
Mind you, that warden—Harry… ‘You’re a very nice woman, and don’t let anybody tell you different.’ Fancy saying that! Especially when I’d got him all wrong. Ever so nice of him. And it’s worth more when someone like that says it—means something. You’re a very nice woman… Maybe I’m not so bad, after all.
Wednesday 25th September
Lucy
I slept through most of Saturday afternoon—glorious, no raids—and felt a whole heap better afterwards. Frank came to see me on Sunday, which I’d been rather dreading, but he did look very good in his battledress, not in the least like a stork, and I felt terrifically proud to be walking down the street with him. Moral snobbism, I suppose, if such a thing exists.
We had tea in the garden with Mums and Minnie, and then took ourselves off for a walk. There was a heaviness about the whole thing, and I couldn’t help making comparisons with my airman, which is dreadful. Half listening to Frank, and half my mind on him and then remembering how I was thinking about Mr Bridges last time we were together, and hating myself for it. I tried to tell myself afterwards that that little episode was because I hadn’t known any better, but that’s not an excuse. There seem to be different Lucys who take turns in being me and then a big blank space when they all run away and hide, and that’s when I find myself looking in the mirror and wondering who’s there… Oh, dear. That sounds as if I’m going dotty, doesn’t it? But I’m not, just trying to examine the bits of my character that I can understand, or at least want to acknowledge. It’s like losing your keys on a dark street and looking for them under a lamppost, not because there’s more chance they’ll be there than anywhere else, but because that’s the only place where there’s any light. I tried explaining this to Minnie, without mentioning Mr Bridges or my airman, of course, and she said, ‘Well, you wouldn’t have much luck in the blackout.’ I don’t think she had a clue what I meant! Decided later, as usual, that this sort of self-examination is morbid, and one shouldn’t indulge in it.
The walk with Frank felt like an extended goodbye, as if we were both waiting for him to get on a train—which, in a sense, we were—and it was something to be ‘got through’ rather than enjoyed. I kept thinking that he might propose, and wondering what on earth I should say if he did. I felt I couldn’t let him down because he’s going away, but didn’t want to make promises to him, either. He kept asking me if I was all right, and I kept saying I was, but it was all very unsatisfactory, and I’m sure he felt that way, too.
It was very awkward at the end, standing in front of the gate and neither of us knowing what to say. Frank kept glancing at the hole in the porch roof and back at me, and I knew he was thinking about me being in danger.
‘I want to stay in London, Frank, I’ve told you.’
‘I know.’
‘I’ll be all right, really. Safe as…’
‘Houses?’ We both laughed, but it was uncomfortable, and I couldn’t look him in the eye. ‘Lucy, there’s not…not another reason, is there? Someone else?’
‘No! No…’ I could feel myself blushing. ‘There’s no-one else.’ I thought as I was saying it that it was an honest answer, because there isn’t an actual someone else, at least, not in a real sense.
‘Lucy?’
A voice in my head screaming, Don’t ask me to marry you!
‘Will you…will you write to me?’
Oh, the relief! ‘Course I will, silly!’ I threw my arms round his neck. He disengaged me gently and stepped back, shaking his head. I couldn’t make out his expression at all.
‘You’re a funny one.’
‘Yes, I suppose I am. It’s just…you know. Everything,’ I finished, rather lamely.
‘Oh, well.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I’d better be going. Let’s say goodbye here, shall we?’
I didn’t try to change his mind. ‘Give me a kiss, Frank.’ I don’t really know why I said that. Wanting to end it on the right note, I suppose, even if it was a fraud.
He didn’t kiss me properly, just touched his lips to my cheek.
‘Let me know where you are,’ I said, ‘so I can write to you.’
He nodded, and I had the sudden realisation that he wasn’t going to—that he’d seen through my reaction, my denial, that I’d given myself away.
‘Oh, Frank, I’m sorry…’
‘Goodbye, Lucy.’
I watched him walk down the road, but he didn’t look round. There was something final about it, like a door closing behind me. Not with a bang, just a gentle, firm click.
It would have been easier if he’d been angry. Afterwards, I felt empty and dreadful and wished I’d acted differently, but I couldn’t tell if it was because I was sorry for him or because of wanting the feeling of a proper parting. I went and sat by myself in the garden and remembered him pouncing on one of my freckles, saying he’d caught it in the act of coming out. I haven’t behaved well, and there’s no excuse for it. I’m altogether very miserable and sorry for myself. Minnie, thinking me upset for all the right reasons, didn’t ask questions, for which I was grateful, but her kindness made it worse. I’m mean and awful and don’t deserve her—or anyone.
I thought about pinning the brooch on my frock for work on Monday, but decided to leave it under my pillow. Who knows? Perhaps it will protect our house. I spent the whole journey to the office fretting over Frank, and most of the morning in a turmoil, half the time thinking I never want to see Mr Bridges again, or have anything to do with him, and the other half in a state of fury that he hadn’t come down to apologise. I jolly well wasn’t going upstairs to look for him, though.
I was on my own in the office just before lunch when he came in—he’d obviously been hanging about in the corridor waiting for everyone to leave. I carried on pounding my typewriter.
‘Did you get home safely?’
I glanced up, just for a moment. I hadn’t formed any idea of what to say to him—too agitated for that—but he looked so sorry for himself, so wretched, that I despised him utterly, and couldn’t believe I’d ever felt any different. I felt disgusted at myself for letting him kiss me, and even more for enjoying it. Now I’d seen him, I just wanted him to leave so I could put it out of my mind. I couldn’t bear to look at him, so I kept my eyes on the typing.
‘Well, obviously, or I wouldn’t be here, would I?’
‘I was worried about you, out there all on your own.’
‘Were you really?’
‘Lucy, don’t be like this.’
Thump, thump on the typewriter. Carriage return—ping!
‘There was nothing I could do, you must see that.’
‘Oh, must I?’
‘I was trapped. That man—’
&n
bsp; Thump, thump.
‘I wanted to come down earlier, but I’ve been tied up all morning.’
‘Well, you didn’t try very hard to get untied.’
‘Lucy…’
Thump, thump, thump.
‘Can’t you stop, just for a moment?’
‘I’m busy.’
‘I want to talk to you.’
‘Oh, really?’
‘Yes. I know you’re angry, and I don’t blame you.’
‘I’m delighted to hear it.’
‘Lucy, please.’
Thump, thump—ping!
‘I couldn’t help it, really! That man, he knows me, knows… I couldn’t think, I just panicked.’
‘Yes, you did rather, didn’t you?’ I pulled the papers and carbon up through the rollers, and looked him right in the eye. ‘I must say, I’m surprised you don’t have a better speech prepared. After all, you must have done this sort of thing before.’
He looked wounded. ‘No! Never. But then,’ he smiled, weakly, ‘I’ve never met anyone as irresistible as you.’
I thought, that came out pat, all right! I folded my arms. ‘Clearly not so irresistible as all that.’
‘But you agreed to come.’
‘Yes. Yes, I did. That was a mistake. It won’t be repeated.’ I picked up more paper and fed it into the typewriter.
He walked towards the door, and paused. ‘I…’
‘Yes?’
‘Nothing. Never mind. I’ll go.’ And that was that. Except that I suddenly remembered it wasn’t, because of the arrangement we’d made for me to help one day a week, but decided I’d have to cross that bridge when I came to it. I felt rather shaky, but satisfied I’d done the right thing.
I looked up at the sky on the way home and felt that somebody was watching over me. I barely said hello to Mums, but rushed to my bedroom—sure enough, the brooch was still there. When I held it in my hand I could see his face so clearly, the blue eyes and the golden hair like a blaze around his head. I could almost imagine he was right there in the room. I wondered, suddenly, if he was still alive—the idea that I might never see him again is awful. I clutched the brooch tightly and closed my eyes, hoping for some feeling or intuition about him, but got nothing. Told myself I was being thoroughly idiotic, but the desire to go on thinking about him, imagining what he might be doing, was so strong that I lay down on the bed, closed my eyes, and gave in to it. I can’t bear the thought that I may never know what happens to him.
I want so much to believe that the circumstances of our meeting have some significance, that they were meant to happen—finding the bird’s wings in the garden like that, burying them and saying a prayer, and then, in the evening, being lost and frightened and wanting an angel and him just appearing like that and taking me into the shelter and giving me the brooch. But I know it’s not a pattern at all—at least, it would be in a book, but not in real life. Which this isn’t, really. Not normal real life, anyway. Hard to imagine anything being normal ever again.
I must have been more tired than I thought, because the next thing I knew, Minnie was shaking me, saying that the siren had gone and supper was ready and she and Mums were going to have theirs under the stairs. Had mine in the usual place and thought how nice it would be to have an evening meal at the table instead of underneath it, as so often seems to be the case at the moment. Nice music on the wireless, until it had a fit of the splutters and died. I felt restless and fed up and wished I was doing something, instead of just sitting about. Resolved to put my name down for the mobile canteen.
Mums went to sleep after a while, and Minnie came over to join me. She said that old Mrs Grout told Mums that her dog can tell the difference between our planes and theirs. Seems pretty unlikely, but at least it’s stopped barking during the raids, which is something, because that certainly kept us awake, even if the bombs didn’t!
Had another queer dream: I was lying flat on my back on a table, wearing a black frock. The skirt kept riding up at the sides and I was trying to put my hand down to smooth it over my knees because there was someone there, but I couldn’t make it stay…and then I saw it was a man in a dark suit. It didn’t look like anyone particular, but I knew it was Mr Bridges, the way you do in dreams. He had scissors, big ones, and he stood at my feet and bent over and started to cut up the middle of the dress from the hem. The material was parting, showing the tops of my legs, and I wanted to pull the edges together to cover myself up, but I couldn’t seem to sit up enough to do it; there was something pressing down on my head, stopping me. I suddenly realised that I didn’t have my underclothes on and I wanted to get off the table and find them, and I was about to say this when I saw that my airman was there, watching. I didn’t want him to see me like that so I tried to get up but there was something lying across me, pinning me down, and I couldn’t move at all. I must have started thrashing around because I banged my head pretty smartly on the underside of one of the chairs, which woke me up, and after a moment I saw that Minnie’s arm was flung out across my stomach, and that’s what it must have been in the dream that was stopping me from moving.
Minnie woke up a second later, looked round wildly, ‘What? What is it?’ and banged her head on the table leg.
I said, ‘It’s all right,’ and rubbed it for her, thinking she’d lie down again and go back to sleep, but she didn’t.
She whispered, ‘You know that brooch you were holding, when I came up to your room…did Frank give it to you?’
It was too dark to see her face—or for her to see mine, thank goodness. I didn’t want to explain. ‘Yes.’
‘I just thought… It doesn’t look like you, somehow.’
‘It’s more for luck, really. From his mother.’
‘Oh.’ Minnie sounded puzzled. ‘I just thought perhaps you’d—well, it sounds silly, now—but I thought you might have met somebody else.’
‘What sort of somebody else?’
‘You know. A man.’
‘No!’ I certainly wasn’t going to tell her I’d made a fool of myself over Mr Bridges, and besides, I think she’s secretly rather keen on Frank. I remember once when we were both at the bottom of the garden, with our backs to him, and he mistook her for me and gave her a kiss, and she blushed like anything.
‘Sssh. I’m sorry, it’s just that you’ve been funny. Secret. You always used to tell me things.’
‘There’s nothing to tell. I’m just tired, that’s all.’
‘Me too. I suppose that’s why I imagined… But everybody is, aren’t they? You know, this morning I did the stupidest thing. I was on my way to work, going past a bomb site and I saw a whole pile of glittering things on the pavement, all spilled out, like treasure, and I went over, not to take anything, just to look. It was like little jewels, and I picked one up to see what it was. I had it in my palm and I suddenly realised it was a glass eye. It was an oculist’s shop with the window blown out, and his stock lying on the ground, hundreds of glass eyes staring at me. I was dreaming about them just now. It was creepy—I’m glad you woke me up.’
‘It sounds horrible. You didn’t tell that to Mums, did you?’
‘’Course not.’
‘Will you be able to go back to sleep now?’
‘I suppose so. I wish the All-Clear would go.’
She sighed and settled herself down, and after a few minutes I could tell she was asleep. I listened to her breathing and thought how lucky I am to have such a nice sister. I felt bad about lying to her, but I couldn’t have explained—well, I suppose I could, and just not mentioned about the dinner, but I’m no good at making things up, I can’t think fast enough. And anyway, if I told Minnie, it would make it all less special, somehow. I felt a twinge of guilt—like toothache—about Frank, but managed to suppress it by remembering Minnie’s story about the glass eyes. Found myself wondering if people take them out to sleep. I shouldn’t fancy waking up to find my own eye staring back at me from inside a glass of water.
I woke up with an
aching head and back, but managed to get through the day without running into Mr Bridges, which I was rather dreading. On the way home, I saw lovers in a doorway, embracing. For some reason, it reminded me of my dream and I felt rather disturbed by it. I bought a newspaper in order to have something else to think about—just as well as the train halted outside Charing Cross and didn’t move again for three-quarters of an hour!
There was a small piece about a woman killed in Soho, not far from where I was two nights ago. Miss Edith Parker, twenty-six, blonde dance hostess—and we all know what that means! It reminded me of the woman I saw in the shelter. I suppose they rather let themselves in for that sort of thing, but all the same, it isn’t very nice. The paper said she was strangled. But I suppose it makes a change from reporting the war as if it were cricket—one man on the train pointed to a piece in his paper about the RAF and said, ‘Shades of Don Bradman!’ The woman with him said, ‘Yes, dear,’ and didn’t seem at all interested, for which I don’t blame her. But it reminded me of ‘my’ airman, and I couldn’t help but wonder about him. Still, it took up the rest of the journey nicely.
Arrived home at half past seven, in the middle of an air-raid—I could hear planes and the crump of bombs falling, but nothing very near, thank goodness. Dad and Minnie were under the kitchen table, and she was helping him mend his bicycle: he’d ridden into a bomb crater and the front wheel was bent. He was in high spirits, and made us laugh a lot with a story about an old lady who was deaf as a post and didn’t know there was a raid on. He crawled out from under the table and showed us the pantomime he’d done, swooping round the kitchen pretending to be a plane and miming bombs falling. He seemed to be enjoying himself, and we were, too—at least until Mums emerged from her hidey-hole to say we were giving her a headache with all the thumping about and laughing. Then she saw the bicycle and ticked us off for having it in the kitchen.
Lover Page 11