Blimey, I thought, you couldn’t make it up, could you? ‘That’s nice, dear. I’m Rene.’
‘Pleased to meet you.’ He put his hand out for me to shake.
‘It’s all right, dear, it’s not a garden party.’
‘Oh. Sorry.’ He put both hands behind his back, and looked down at his feet. I thought, I’ve got my work cut out here.
‘Haven’t you forgotten something, dear?’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t—’
‘The money.’
‘Oh, yes. Of course.’
At least they’re quick, the first time. Afterwards, he said he wanted to talk. That’s something else you get a lot of, and it’s always the same: hard luck stories. The wife’s left or the girl won’t marry them or they’re miserable. Once you’ve heard one man feeling sorry for himself, you’ve heard them all.
I mean, I’m not one of these ‘Get your trousers off and get on with it’ merchants, I like to keep it polite, but you don’t want them hanging around afterwards, especially if they’re going to come over all moral and try to save you—well! I tell you, I’ve had clergymen in here giving me a sermon about what a tragedy it is to live like I do and how I ought to repent and all the rest of it, when not five minutes before they’ve been begging me to talk all manner of filth to get them excited. Funny, you’d think they’d see how ridiculous it is, but they never do. And men say women are stupid! Although now I come to think of it, I suppose we must be, because we put up with it, don’t we?
Not that I thought I was going to get that from this boy, but I wasn’t in the mood, so I said, ‘No, you’ve had what you’ve paid for,’ and he said he’d give me more money. I told him a pound. He gave it to me, then he said, ‘Will you put your arms round me?’
‘Very well, dear, if that’s what you want.’ Then blow me if he didn’t start to cry! I’ve got one arm round him and one eye on the clock, I’m patting him on the back like a baby and half-listening, and he talks and talks. He was going on about how he’s afraid he’ll let down his family and his chums and how it wasn’t like he thought it would be—the air force, I suppose he meant—and he didn’t know if he could fight, and then he said how ashamed he was at coming to see me. I thought, that’s a bit rich, so I said, ‘Well, if that’s the case, dear, you’d better be going, hadn’t you?’ He apologised and said something about getting carried away because it was a relief to talk to someone, and then he sort of checked himself, like he’d been about to tell me something else. Then he started on about this pal who’d run out on him and what a good flyer he was, and how he seemed to be fearless, but how he hardly ever spoke to anyone, and how some of the other fellows liked a joke but this one never joined in, and a whole lot more like that, but I wasn’t interested to hear it, I was thinking of how soon I could get rid of him and back downstairs, so I’m at the mirror putting on lipstick, nodding away: ‘Yes, well, never mind…’
‘I don’t understand,’ he kept saying. ‘If only I could understand.’
I said, ‘Oh, everybody feels like that sometimes. It’s a funny old world, after all.’
‘Do they really?’ He looked at me with these great big wet eyes and just for a moment it reminded me so much of my Tommy that I almost went and gave him a proper cuddle, but then I thought, that won’t do. It was touching, though, because some of these boys are so young, really, and when you think what they have to do… But I hadn’t time for any more of it, so I said, ‘Come on, dear. Off you go.’
He gave himself a little shake, and said, ‘I’m sorry if I’ve bored you.’
‘Oh, don’t you worry about that.’
‘You’ve been very kind.’
‘Only doing my job, dear. Come back any time. Ta-ta.’
Then he said he’d got to go and find this queer chum of his, and off he went.
I went back out, too. It was pretty quiet, so I thought I’d nip round the corner for a chat to Lily, see if she wanted a cup of tea, but she wasn’t there. I stayed on for a bit—a couple more, then nothing for half an hour, and Lily still wasn’t back, so I thought, oh, well… Then, just as I was about to go in, I heard footsteps, not very steady, and this mournful voice, like a fog-horn: ‘Poor old Henry…’ with a great beery belch that echoed up and down the street and had me chuckling all the way up the stairs. Poor old Henry! I’ll tell that to Lily tomorrow, when I see her.
Thursday 26th September
Lucy
When I woke up yesterday morning I decided it was time to turn over a new leaf. At Minnie’s firm they take turns in fire-watching twice a week, but so far, I’ve done nothing at all, and when I think about her, and Dad, and Frank joining up, it makes me feel pretty useless. I put the green brooch in my handbag as a reminder, and attended a lecture on first aid—a real one, this time—in the evening. I spoke to one of the ladies from the Women’s Auxiliary Council of the YMCA about volunteering for the mobile canteen, and she said she’d see if it was possible for me to do service part-time, which bucked me up no end. There’s no cooking, thank heavens—unless you count making tea—just playing shop with pies and buns, which suits me down to the ground. Came out feeling that at least it was a step in the right direction, then—horrors!—I saw Mr Bridges across the road, obviously waiting for someone. Rushed down the nearest side-street so he shouldn’t see me, but it was too late, he’d started calling out to me. He caught up and then I had to stop because people were turning round to see what the noise was.
‘Go away,’ I hissed.
‘Lucy, please. Let me explain.’
‘You don’t need to explain. Just go away.’
‘Please, Lucy. I know you don’t want any more to do with me, you’ve made that clear, but if you could just listen—’
‘All right, I’m listening. Tell me.’
‘Not in the middle of the street. Let’s sit down, at least. Have a drink. This isn’t easy.’
‘Well, you don’t have to do it on my account.’
‘I want to. Don’t you understand?’
‘No, frankly, I don’t.’
‘For God’s sake, Lucy!’ He grabbed hold of my arm, and a man stopped and said, ‘This chap bothering you, Miss?’
Flustered, I said, ‘No, really, it’s fine.’
He looked doubtful. ‘If you’re sure…’
‘Yes, really. Thank you.’
The man moved away, and Mr Bridges said, ‘Can I take that as a “yes”, then? You’ll come?’
‘I suppose so. But I can’t be long.’
We went to a pub in Rathbone Place. Very rowdy. Mr Bridges said that the customers were all artists and intellectuals, but I must say they didn’t look it to me. They all smelt strongly of alcohol, and there was a man in the corner telling dirty stories in quite a loud voice, most of it incoherent, thank heavens. One woman was actually staggering, and the man trying to hold her up wasn’t much better. What a place! It beats me how people, especially clever people, can behave like that.
I think Mr Bridges must have been in a pub before he’d seen me, because he started pawing at me and being sentimental, saying his wife was ill, a chronic invalid, and dreadfully bad-tempered, and had been that way for years. I didn’t believe a word of it, and said so. I was fairly disgusted with the whole thing, and angry at myself for backsliding by agreeing to listen to him at all. I got up to leave as soon as I could. Mr Bridges tried to follow, but I told him not to bother. I know he could make things awkward for me at work if he chose, especially because I jolly well won’t go up to his office again, but I felt, for once, that I was in the right. I walked down the road with no real sense of where I was going, but by the time I came to Oxford Street I’d cooled down a bit. It was nice to be in the fresh air, and the bangs weren’t too close, thank goodness. Decided to try and find my way to Leicester Square. A spur-of-the-moment thing, really, which certainly had something to do with meeting you-know-who, and thinking it must have happened close by, and wondering if by any chance he’d be there again, coupled with e
xhilaration at getting rid of Mr Bridges and a strong desire to put off another dose of Mums for as long as possible.
I realised, even as I was doing it, that it was silly and pointless, and I’d probably end up getting lost, but I carried on stumbling in what I hoped was the right direction as if something was impelling me—as if my torch wasn’t in my hand at all, but the little beam was coming from somewhere else, to guide me. Very strange. Managed to get across Oxford Street and into Soho. Remembering the prostitute who’d been murdered made me nervous, because you do hear these terrible stories about gangs and white slavers and the like. I know it’s hardly likely to happen to me, but all the same, I didn’t feel very comfortable— kept thinking that some horrible man was going to reach out of the darkness to grab me and bundle me through a doorway or something, and every time someone brushed past me, I imagined I could feel a hand reaching out for my neck. After about five minutes I was starting to wish I’d just gone down Regent Street, and I just about got the fright of my life when someone ran straight into me and I slipped off the curb and sat down hard on my bottom, right in the road. I managed to put my hand on my torch, which by some miracle was still working, and the first thing I saw was a swaying tripod of legs—frayed carpet slippers, varicose veins thick as creepers that seemed to be moving in the torchlight, twisting their way up columns of grey, puckered flesh, and in the centre, the solidness of a man’s trouser and shoe.
My first thought was—idiotically—for the man’s other leg, but a phlegmy whinnying noise from somewhere above my head made me jump, and a woman’s voice cackled, ‘The foolish virgins said to the wise, give us your oil, for our lamps are gone out.’
A torch shone into my face, and a man said, ‘Rene! Let me give you a hand.’
‘Thank you, but you’re mistaken. I’m not Rene.’
‘Oh no, so you aren’t. Sorry, Miss, my mistake. It was your coat, Miss, made me think I knew you. Are you all right down there?’
‘I think so. I must have tripped.’
‘Easy to do in the blackout. Let me help you up.’
‘…but the wise virgins said no—’
‘That’s enough sermonising, Ma. Here, Miss, let’s get you upright.’ As he bent down to help me up his other knee came into view, which was quite a relief. He was a big man with a nice, kind face. All the time, the woman droned in the background, ‘…they said, not likely. That’s what they said. Wouldn’t let them have it.’
‘Come on, Ma. Don’t you worry about her, Miss. Now then, if you’re fit, I’d best get you both round to the shelter. You shouldn’t be out here, it’s not safe.’
‘Yes, thank you.’
‘Don’t mention it. You just lean up here and get your breath back for a minute, and then we’ll make tracks.’
The old woman was still bawling away, ‘He said to them, He said, You know not the day nor the hour! That’s what He said…’
‘I’ll give you the day and the hour in a minute, Ma. Now come on! Don’t you worry, Miss,’ he said to me, ‘She’s had a drop too much, that’s all.’ He winked. ‘It wouldn’t be the first time, either.’
It was nothing to be afraid of, but it took the wind out of my sails, and I began to wish I’d never embarked on such a stupid venture in the first place. My leg was hurting, and when I put my hand down and touched my knee, I realised I’d cut myself. I limped along after the warden until we came to a shelter, which I was pretty sure was the same one I’d been to before, and I sat down to inspect the damage. The warden got the old woman settled in the corner, where she went straight to sleep. ‘There you are,’ he said to me, ‘she won’t give you any more trouble.’
‘It’s very kind of you.’
‘Not at all, Miss. Nolan’s my name. Harry Nolan. I’m the warden here. I’ve not seen you before—not local, are you?’
‘No, I was just on my way home.’
‘Pardon my saying, but you want to be careful, miss, walking round here. You’ll have a sit-down before you go off home, won’t you? I’ll take you over to Mrs McIver, she’ll see you’re all right.’
‘Thank you.’
He ushered me across the shelter to an elderly lady, who was bent almost double over a newspaper, trying to make out the crossword. He leaned over and spoke to her, then waved at me and left. I didn’t think she’d heard him, but she must have, because I was dabbing at my knee with my handkerchief when she said, ‘You need a plaster for that.’
I looked up, and she was peering at me, her head twisted on one side. It reminded me of Dennis, the tortoise we had until last year. Minnie always said the shock of being at war must have killed him, because he hibernated for the winter and never woke up again.
‘You look in there.’ She jabbed a finger at a carpet bag by her feet. I hesitated, because it seemed rude, but she said, ‘It’s all in there. Go on.’
She didn’t seem to mind me rooting around amongst her things, just went back to her crossword. She was wearing an ancient horror of a hat with a brim, and flowers, and every so often she’d put her hand up, tug a stub of pencil out of it, lick the end, scribble down a clue, and jab the pencil home, all without straightening her back.
I found a bundle of first aid things, dabbed the cut with some iodine and stuck a plaster over it. My stockings were laddered, as I’d feared, but not too badly to mend. I tidied my hair, which improved things a bit, and brushed the worst of the grit off my skirt and coat. Looking down at the blue wool, I remembered the warden saying, ‘It was your coat, Miss, made me think I knew you,’ and I thought of the prostitute I’d seen in the shelter who was wearing the same model. She’d looked a bit like me, too. I couldn’t imagine that such a nice man would know her in her…well, let’s say her working life, so decided immediately that it must be because she’s a regular in the shelter. Anything else would be unthinkable! But slightly disturbing to think I could be mistaken for a woman of that sort, even for a moment—not nice at all.
The elderly lady stowed away her pencil with an air of finality and picked up an alarm clock from the bench beside her. She shook it, peered at it, sniffed loudly, rolled up her newspaper, and turned to me. ‘You waiting for someone, dear?’
I shook my head. It was daft, really, because all the time, sitting there, I kept expecting him to come in—no earthly reason why he should but… Oh, I don’t know. Stupid.
‘I’ve seen you before,’ she said.
‘Have you?’
‘Yes, with a young man. I’m sure it was you. Services, he was. That was it. Air force. Yes,’ she said. ‘I remember. Handsome.’
I could feel myself blushing. ‘He’s not…’
‘Not what? Not your brother, at any rate,’ she said, sharply. ‘Meeting him, are you?’
I shook my head. ‘Really. I was just seeing someone—well, a man, and we argued, and I came this way, and…’ I launched into an account of what had happened—no mention of him, of course—wondering why on earth I felt the need to explain to a complete stranger, and whether she’d think me mad for telling her, but she didn’t seem to. I said, ‘That lady over there. She was shouting at me.’
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Mary. The Bible, was it?’
‘I think so. Does she…?’
‘Like a drop?’ She laughed. ‘More than a drop, dear, but she’s harmless enough. You don’t want to take any notice.’ She leaned over. ‘Nuns,’ she whispered.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Educated by nuns. Then they wouldn’t let her join. Took it badly. Doo-lally.’ She tapped her forehead, then peered at me, more like Dennis the tortoise than ever, and said, ‘That young man. The handsome one. He’s the one you favour, isn’t he?’
‘Well, I don’t know. I…’ The whole thing suddenly seemed farcical, and I felt such a fool I didn’t know where to look.
‘You be careful, dear. That’s all. Don’t go looking for trouble. Now then. You’d best be off home.’
‘Yes. Yes, I suppose I had. Thank you.’
‘Do
n’t mention it, dear. McIver’s the name.’
‘Lucy. Armitage.’
‘Lucy, is it? Well, good night, dear, and good luck.’
I journeyed home in a sort of daze and ate sandwiches with Minnie under the kitchen table. No tea, because there’s only enough left for tomorrow morning. Mums was very shirty about this, according to Minnie; apparently it’s our fault for making tea in the middle of the night and using up the ration. I thought of pointing out that we’re not the ones here all day drinking cups of tea, but felt too preoccupied to get indignant about it.
I tossed and turned all night—planes at one, then again about four. The All-Clear went at five, so I went upstairs to bed. I felt tired and irritable, but couldn’t settle. Kept thinking how pathetically transparent I must be if a complete stranger could see through me so easily…as I saw through Mr. Bridges… Oh, dear. Well, that’ll teach me. So much for turning over a new leaf. Drifted off to sleep after that.
Friday 27th September
Soho
Ted Gerrity woke up with a bastard behind the eyes. His head felt as heavy as a sandbag and ready to burst, and even the action of turning it sideways on the pillow produced such an intense wave of nausea that he thrust his upper body forward to hang over the edge of the bed. Lily’d make a fuss if it got on the sheets. He waited, eyes closed, for the heave, but nothing happened. After a few minutes, he opened his eyes. Even that was painful, although the blackouts kept the room mercifully dim. He concentrated on the floor beside the bed, trying to get it into focus. Pair of scissors down there? He leaned down further and picked them up, but the movement brought another upsurge, so he let them fall, wincing as the thunk! hit his cortex, and closed his eyes again.
Lily’s curling tongs. Fancy leaving them on the floor like that, where anyone could trip over them. Slowly, he became aware of the other parts of his body. He felt stale, constricted, and…damp. Oh, no. Lily really would raise hell about that, if he’d pissed himself again. He was fully clothed, as well. Shoes, and all. Must have been quite a night, he thought, blearily, feeling too grim even for self-disgust. He fumbled with the top button of his trousers until it came undone—that was better—and lay still again, trying to summon up the resolve to get off the bed and sort himself out. How had he got home, anyway? Had Lily been there? Surely not, or she’d have got his clothes off. It wasn’t like her to go to the shelter without him, and anyway, last night hadn’t been too bad, had it? Unless he’d slept through the lot. Not wanting to turn his head again, Ted put out a hand and felt towards the middle of the bed. His fingers stubbed against the flesh above someone’s elbow—Lily’s presumably—and he drew his hand back, not wanting to wake her. He couldn’t face up to a row, not now. Perhaps they’d had one last night, and that was why she hadn’t undressed him. If they had, though, he couldn’t remember a thing about it. Best not let on about that, he thought. It would only start her off again.
Lover Page 14