Avalanche of Daisies

by Beryl Kingston

  He read on, avidly, hoping they’d give some indication what the rent would be. But they only said it was ‘likely to be reasonable’ and hinted that there would be a list for prospective tenants. He wasn’t deterred. However much it was, he could afford it. He’d take her to see one of them the minute he could arrange it and he’d put his name on the list the minute it was opened. I’ll write and ask her to the Lyceum, he thought. If I play my cards right, I bet she’ll come dancing now. Then I’ll tell her about the houses while we’re on the floor.

  It was a cunning letter.

  Good news about the Rhine crossing. I bet you are all pleased as Punch. Me and a few friends are going to the Lyceum dancing on Saturday to celebrate. Would you like to join us? It is a good place. I told you about it before if you remember. It is in the Strand where the GI’s go. I think you would enjoy it. I shall understand if you do not feel up to it yet. I do not want to put you under any pressure. I shall be at our usual meeting place at eight o’clock and if you would like to come with us I would be happy to take you.

  It was delivered by second post the next afternoon when Barbara was in her bedroom rereading some of Steve’s letters, the way she often did when she was feeling low or lonely – as she was at that moment because the good news had made her too aware of how much she missed him. It was nearly time for her to go to work, for she was on late turn that day, but there was just time to read one more. The bundle lay on his brown counterpane with its red ribbon untied, and naturally, the letter in her hand was his one-and-only love letter. I could never for get you,’ she read, eager for the words to warm her. ‘You are under my skin. I remember everything about you, how you look, how you smell, how you feel … You are my own dear darling …’ But oddly, and for the first time ever, the warmth didn’t begin, the familiar, necessary magic wasn’t working, and what was worse, when she tried to remember him, the details of his face were vague, as if the memory of him was fading like the ink on the page. It was so horrible the tears stung in her eyes. I can’t be forgetting him, she thought. Thass not possible. Not when I love him so much. Not when the war’s nearly over.

  Their wedding album was still standing on his bookshelf, white as snow among the blues and oranges of his collection. She took it down quickly, and opened it to gaze hungrily at his recorded face, but there was distance in that image too. It seemed an age ago, as if they were two different people. She turned the page, hoping for better with another photograph, and there was the group picture, with Aunt Becky holding on to her hat, and Mr Wilkins smiling sheepishly, and Mrs Wilkins with that awful disapproving look on her face. She didn’t like me then, Barbara remembered, and she don’t like me much more now. Not if the truth be told. We put up with each other, thass all, but deep down she ain’t changed. She give me just the same look every time I go out, as if I got no right to enjoy myself. If it wasn’t for the odd trip to the pictures now and then I reckon I’d go potty living here. Oh if only they’d let Steve home for a day or two.

  And at that moment she heard the letter fall through the letter box and rushed down the stairs at once to pick it up, thinking of Steve all the way. It was quite a surprise to find that it was from Victor Castlemain, for although they went to the pictures every week, he never wrote to her.

  But she was glad of the letter just the same. The thought of going dancing again was very tempting and they’d certainly got something to celebrate. She knew it would annoy Mrs Wilkins – if she ever found out about it – but Steve wouldn’t mind. He’d told her to go out and enjoy herself. She’d read the letter just a few minutes ago. ‘Live your life to the full,’ he’d said. And there was no harm in going out with old Victor. He never tried anything on, no kissing or saying silly things. He didn’t even hold her hand, although they walked along arm in arm sometimes. It was really rather noble of him when he was still attracted by her. She’d been a bit worried about that at first, but now she took it as proof that she hadn’t changed, that she would still be attractive when Steve came home. That wasn’t fair to Vic but it wasn’t as if she was encouraging him, and anyway he didn’t seem to mind. He was a good friend.

  Even so, she did feel a bit guilty as she walked in through the tall columns of the old theatre in the Strand. Perhaps she was being heartless. Perhaps she shouldn’t be out dancing, when Norman was drowned and poor Betty’d been killed and Steve was still in France. But then they were inside and the band was playing ‘Pennsylvania Six Five Thousand’ and the place was so loud and frenetic and overcrowded that she couldn’t think of anything except the excitement of the moment and the fun of dancing again.

  There was no sign of any of Vic’s friends but she had partners in plenty for the floor was packed with servicemen and Vic was an attentive companion. After the first hour the bandsmen began to mop their foreheads and the GI’s threw off their tunics as the beat grew faster and faster. Barbara’s hair was stuck to her forehead with sweat and her shoes were covered in dust.

  ‘What an evenin’!’ she said to Vic, as she came back to join him after an energetic jitterbug with a cheerful GI.

  ‘Glad you came?’

  Her answer was rapturous. ‘You bet!’

  It was the perfect moment. ‘I got some news for you,’ he said.

  She wasn’t terribly interested. After all, what could he say to beat the news she’d been reading that week? ‘Have you?’

  He leant towards her until he could see the reflection of his face in the pupils of her eyes. ‘How would you like a home of your own?’

  She laughed at him, teasing, ‘You got one to sell then?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ he admitted. ‘But I could find you one for rent.’

  ‘Really?’ She was still teasing but her curiosity was roused.

  ‘Really. They’re the latest thing. Pre-fabricated. They can build one in four hours.’ And he showed her the cutting, walking her across to the nearest wall-light so that she could see to read it.

  She was very interested but she saw a drawback straight away. ‘I wouldn’t be eligible though, would I?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘That says here, Londoners an’ their families. I hain’t a Londoner for a start. Nor a family.’

  ‘They’re for couples as well,’ he told her. ‘Servicemen and their wives are gonna be top priority. People on war work. Things like that. You’d be just the sort of person they’re looking for. They’re putting them up on the commons already. They want to know what people think of them. I could get you a preview ticket if you’d like.’

  Yes, she would, very much. ‘When?’

  ‘You tell me.’

  ‘I hain’t got a day off till Monday week,’ she said. ‘An’ I promised to go to Bellington South in the afternoon with Aunt Sis. Would the morning be all right?’

  ‘I’ll fix it,’ he said. ‘Wanna dance?’ And was thrilled by how happily she stepped into his arms.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The prefabs stood in a row along the edge of the common, between the pavement and an avenue of limes, each with its own plot of garden around it, defined by a tiny picket fence, each with a flat roof, a tin chimney, walls made of plain grey panels and green doors and windows, neat and new like a line of well-wrapped parcels. One of them had net curtains in the windows and a long queue of people waiting on the front path.

  ‘What d’you think?’ Vic said happily, smiling towards them as if he’d designed and built them himself.

  ‘They’re smashing,’ Barbara said. ‘Look at all the trees ’longside. Thass like bein’ in the country.’ They reminded her of the trees in the Walks in Lynn, so straight and tall and shapely and all putting out new leaf, pale green and tender in the gentle sunshine, the way things ought to be. And that made her think of Steve and the way they’d kissed under the trees all those long, long months ago. More than a year. ‘What a place to live!’

  ‘Wait till you see inside,’ Vic said, leading her towards the queue. ‘By all accounts that’s first rate.’

>   It was a long wait, but the sunshine was warm and the air balmy and they had plenty to talk about – schooldays in Lynn, the characters they’d met at work there, the awful houses in the North End, how different it was from London – so the time passed pleasantly. Barbara noticed that people were being allowed into the building six at a time so there was obviously plenty of room inside. The queue shuffled forward at steady intervals, and eventually it was their turn. Victor produced two tickets from his inside pocket and they were in.

  If the outside of the house was like a well painted box, the inside was a dream. Barbara walked from room to room in a daze, living room, bathroom, three bedrooms and all so neat and uncluttered and easy to keep clean. Most of the furniture was built into the walls and came with the house, drawers and wardrobes in the bedroom and cupboards in the living room on either side of a gas fire that would keep the place warm without all that filthy business of raking ashes and blackleading a grate. There was even a built-in table that you could fold back into the wall when you weren’t using it. Wouldn’t Aunt Becky like that!

  But it was the kitchen that set the seal on the place. It was the cleanest, neatest kitchen she’d ever seen, with a brand new gas cooker, a modern copper for washing the clothes, a geyser to provide hot water whenever you wanted it, an entire wall of shelves and cupboards where you could keep enough food for a family and still have room left over, and wonder of wonders, a small white cupboard that turned out to be one of those new refrigerators. The young woman guiding them round explained how useful it would be. ‘No more runny butter in the summer. Nice fresh eggs – once they’re off the ration. Meat and fish as fresh as it was when you bought it. You can’t get flies in a refrigerator. I think it’s the best thing that’s ever been invented.’

  ‘So do I,’ Barbara agreed. ‘Thass really hygienic.’

  ‘Are you putting your name down?’ the young woman asked Victor.

  ‘That’s up to the lady,’ he said, looking at Barbara. ‘Would you like to live in a place like this?’

  The sunlight was streaming in through the kitchen window, warming the nape of her neck, enriching the scarlet of her coat, spangling her dark hair with sharp white highlights. ‘Wouldn’t I just!’ she said.

  ‘In that case,’ their guide told them, ‘follow the arrows to the next house along. If you’ll give your particulars to the gentleman there, he’ll see to it. His name’s Mr Fishpool.’

  ‘I’ll do it for you,’ Vic offered, giving Barbara the full force of his most charming smile. ‘You stay here. See all you want to.’ And was gone before she could thank him.

  She was loath to leave the place, even though she knew she was holding other people up by staying. She could imagine herself living there, sitting on that comfortable sofa of an evening, in front of the fire, with Steve beside her, listening to the wireless, with his books on those shelves, and the table folded away; sleeping with him in that neat bedroom, making love in that bed. Oh to be in his arms again! It made her yearn so keenly she had to walk out of the bedroom into the bathroom to recover. She looked at the white geyser on the wall, deliberately turning her mind away from thoughts she couldn’t handle. Imagine having hot water on tap, she told herself. There’d be no more boiling kettles to wash up if we rented a place like this. We could have a bath every day. It would be like living in a palace.

  The next group of six was drifting in through the door, all wide-eyed and open-mouthed. She would have to go. But I’ll be back, she told herself. I’ll be back with Steve. This is the sort of house we’re going to live in, the minute they say we can, the minute the war’s over, the minute he’s out of the army. The thought of it made her so happy that she danced out of the house, turning her face to the sun like a child, eyes widened and lips parted. She couldn’t wait to write and tell him about it.

  Victor was loitering under one of the lime trees. He’d unbuttoned his jacket, and pushed his fedora to the back of his head, and he was wiping his forehead with his handkerchief. He’s getting hot, she thought, poor ol’ bor, and he’s been really kind fixing all this up for me, getting the tickets and giving them the particulars and everything.

  ‘All set?’ he asked, as she smiled towards him.

  ‘Yep. Did you give them my address or Steve’s?’ she said.

  It had been such a casual question that she was surprised to see how shifty it made him look. ‘Oh, home address, I think,’ he said vaguely. ‘Anyway, that’s all taken care of. What say we go an’ have a bite to eat? You got time, ain’t you.’

  ‘Thass no good giving them my address,’ she told him. ‘Thass got to be Steve’s. He’ll be head a’ household. You always have head a’ household on the rent book. Wait there. I’ll see to it. I won’t take long.’

  He caught at her coat, trying to prevent her. ‘There’s no need, Spitfire. You can tell them when they write, can’t you. Let’s go an’ have dinner, eh?’

  But she shook him off. ‘In a minute,’ she said, on her way to the office. ‘I must see to this first.’ A mistake had been made and it had to be put right there and then. She couldn’t walk away and leave the wrong name on the application form. Especially when it was Steve’s name that was missing.

  Mr Fishpool was small and precise and agreed that the alteration should be made. ‘What was the name, madam?’ he asked.

  She told him and he searched through his list. But he couldn’t find a Mrs Wilkins. ‘Not on today’s list, I’m afraid.’

  Barbara couldn’t understand it. She looked round for Victor and an explanation, but he hadn’t followed her into the office. ‘That was onny a few minutes ago,’ she said. ‘That must be there.’

  Mr Fishpool turned the address book towards her. ‘I can’t see it,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you’d like to check.’

  He was right. There was no Wilkins on the page. The name that jumped into her eyes, bringing irritation with it, was Castlemain. And Mr and Mrs Castlemain what’s more. What’s he playin’ at? she thought furiously. I told him to put my name down, mine an’ Steve’s. Not his.

  But she kept calm. ‘I can see what ’tis,’ she said. ‘Thass my friend. Mr Castlemain. He was supposed to give you my name as well as his. He must have forgot.’

  Mr Fishpool remembered Mr Castlemain. ‘Ah yes,’ he said. ‘The young man on war work. We had quite a chat. Is your husband on war work too? It makes a difference to your application.’

  ‘My husband’, she said with immense pride, ‘is in France with the 21st Army. He’s one of the Desert Rats.’

  ‘In that case,’ Mr Fishpool told her courteously, ‘allow me to say that I hope you will be allocated one of the very first houses we have to offer.’

  So Steve’s name and army address were written in the book with his home address beneath and a new application form was completed in every detail and signed with a flourish. Then she strode out into the sunshine, to have it out with Victor Castlemain.

  He was standing on the common, biting his nails, and feeling horribly apprehensive. When she’d gone rushing off he’d been in two minds whether to go or stay, knowing she was bound to find out what he’d done and fearing her wrath. He’d decided against such cowardice and had hung on and thought up an excuse, but he was very uncomfortable. It had never occurred to him that his carefully laid plans could be wrecked so easily. He’d planned the conversation they were going to have, right down to the last sentence, when she was going to agree to share the pre-fab with him, and now, here she was striding across the grass, scowling at him, and despite the brave face he put on, he was inwardly quailing.

  ‘What’s all this squit about you bein’ on war work?’ she said.

  To be attacked from such an unexpected quarter made him huffily defensive. ‘Well so I am. That is war work. Food for the front line, sort of thing. Supplies for the citizen army. If that wasn’t for people like me you’d all be half starved. We’re morale boosters.’

  ‘You’re a spiv!’ she said, cutting him down to size. ‘That got nothin�
� to do with boosting morale. I never heard such a load of ol’ squit. You nick things an’ sell ’em to make money.’

  ‘I got you a goose,’ he defended himself.

  ‘Yes, all right, so you did,’ she allowed, mellowing towards him. ‘Which I ’ppreciate.’

  ‘Well there you are then.’

  But her attack wasn’t over. ‘I got another bone to pick with you though, Victor Castlemain. I thought you were going to put my name down on that list. Thass what you said, wasn’t it? An’ what do I find when I get there?’

  ‘I had to give them my name to get the tickets,’ he explained, using his prepared defence. ‘They were like gold dust. You wouldn’t believe how many people were after them. I had to sign for them. Never known that before. And when I got into that office I had to hand them over, first thing they asked for, so I couldn’t make the application in another name, could I, or they’d have smelled a rat.’

  ‘But you signed it Mr and Mrs Castlemain,’ she said, only partially placated. And teased him, ‘Who’s this missus? Why hain’t we been introduced?’

  ‘That was all married couples on that list,’ he explained. ‘I couldn’t just put my name. They’d never have considered it.’

  ‘I don’ know what you thought you were playin’ at,’ she rebuked him. ‘You should have put my name an’ Steve’s. Thass what you should’ve done. I could’ve lost it altogether if I hadn’t gone back. They didn’t teach you much sense at that ol’ grammar school uv yours.’

  ‘It would’ve all come out in the wash,’ he said. ‘I mean, I’d have changed it when they wrote to me, if that’s what you wanted. You only had to say. I mean, you wanted to come here, didn’t you? You wanted to see them.’

  ‘Not if I had to pretend to be married to you,’ she said, half teasing, half cross.

  He drew himself up to his full height, his face serious. ‘There was a time when you were going to be married to me,’ he said.

  It hurt her to be reminded. ‘That was boy an’ gal stuff.’