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Avalanche of Daisies

Page 32

by Beryl Kingston


  ‘I meant it,’ he said passionately. ‘I still do.’

  This was getting too intense for comfort. ‘Oh come on, Vic,’ she demurred. ‘Thass all over now.’

  He took a breath before he answered her, calculating the risk. ‘It needn’t be,’ he urged. ‘I mean what’s to stop us moving in together if I got one of these houses? Would that be such a bad thing?’

  She was shocked. ‘You hain’t seriously suggesting it, surely?’

  ‘I don’t see why not,’ he said. ‘Lots of gals do.’

  ‘I hain’t lots of gals.’

  ‘Look,’ he urged. ‘Times are changing. That ain’t like the old days. People do all sorts of things now they’d never have dreamed of before the war. I could give you a much better life than you got at the moment. Good food. Place of your own to live. Pretty clothes. A car. I could look after you. It won’t be for ever. I know that. But for a little while, just till the war’s over. We’re both on our own an’ we ain’t exactly strangers, now are we?’

  The changing expressions on his face told her more than his words could ever have done – hope in the widening of his eyes, affection in the softening of his mouth, a shadow of vulnerability. Poor Vic, she understood. That was what he planned. He really thought I’d move in with him if he got me a house. And she knew that it wasn’t just that she attracted him, he loved her, and this situation was as much her fault as his, because she’d been going out with him as though they were courting, and she’d never told him how she felt about Steve. I should have explained everything before I got married, she realised. I hain’t been fair to him.

  ‘I’m Steve’s wife,’ she told him, surprising herself by how gentle she was being. ‘I belong to him now. Even if I wanted to move in with you – which I don’t, I must be honest – I couldn’t. You do see that, don’t you?’ And she put out a hand to touch his arm, to calm him or reassure him, she wasn’t sure which. And was upset to discover that he was trembling.

  ‘I’m as good a man as that soldier,’ he said, pulling away from her, stiff-necked and offended. ‘Any day of the week. Better probably.’

  She had a sudden searing vision of that soldier, walking towards her across Tuesday Market Square, long legs striding, arms outstretched to catch her up and hold her close, brown eyes smiling, lips parted. Those dear soft lips. She could feel them kissing her, could remember the taste of them, the smell of his skin as they lay cuddled together in that ferny bed. Oh my dear, dear, darling.

  ‘But he’s the one I love,’ she said. ‘I’m so sorry Vic.’

  To be rejected was bad enough but to be pitied was worse. Much, much worse. ‘You’re a fool!’ he shouted at her. ‘You hain’t got the sense you were born with. Anyone else would’ve jumped at an offer like that. Jumped at it. What’s the point of staying with your inlaws when you could have a house of your own? Thass just false pride. I thought better of you than that. Think about it, Spitfire! I’m offering you a really good life, dancing, pictures, good food, anything you want. But no! What do you do? You turn round an’ kick me in the teeth. Treat me like dirt.’

  His anger upset her. ‘No,’ she tried. ‘I hain’t. I just said …’

  But now that his fury had broken, he roared on. ‘Kick me in the bloody teeth. Treat me like dirt. Well I ain’t dirt. I’m as good a man as he is any day of the week. Dammit I won’t be pitied!’

  She knew he’d get worse if she tried to argue. This was a North-Ender’s temper and she just had to let him holler it out. ‘I got to go,’ she said. ‘Tram to catch.’ And set off at once across the common, striding like a man, dark hair bouncing, red coat bright against the new green grass.

  Her departure stopped him in mid roar. ‘Where are you going?’ he called.

  ‘Bellington South,’ she called back. ‘I told you.’

  ‘Well sod you then!’ he growled. ‘See if I care. Thass your loss. I made the offer. Can’t do no more than that.’ As he growled, a tram came buzzing along the rails on the road below and she saw it and began to run towards it. There was no bringing her back now. No making her see sense. He couldn’t understand how this had happened. This is all her fault, he thought, watching as she darted into the middle of the road. She behaves as if she’s queen an’ everybody else is dirt. She hain’t got an ounce of gratitude in her body. She got too big for her boots up here in London. She need taking down a peg or two. Showing who’s boss. Anger against her reinstated him a little, restoring his self-worth. She needn’t think she can put me down. I’m more than a match for her.

  The Humber was waiting for him by the kerbside. Nice obedient cars, Humbers. He got in, turned on the ignition, enjoyed the hum of the engine, patted the leather of the passenger seat, noticing that the sun had warmed it, preened in the pride of ownership. I’d like to see that soldier of hers in a Humber, he thought, as he drove off. I bet he hain’t even got a pushbike. An’ he’ll never get her a good house. Never in a thousand years. Well she can live in a slum for all I care. Serve her right for turning me down. How could she do such a thing? His thoughts were in such a turmoil of rejection and frustration that he had no idea where he was going. He was driving away and that was enough.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Heather Wilkins had spent that Monday morning doing the weekly wash all by herself and getting steadily more irritable. By the time she stopped for a slice of toast and a nice little pot of tea, she was hot and sweaty and her back was playing her up something rotten. She could have done with some help or at least a bit of company but Bob was on nights so he was still in bed getting his sleep, and Barbara was out visiting some friend or other. Wouldn’t you know it! She’d had the grace to rinse through her own bits and pieces before she left but it wouldn’t have hurt her to stay in and lend a hand with the sheets and towels. She was getting more and more selfish these days.

  Now that the weather was warmer, the steam from the copper permeated the flat. She’d hung the washing in the garden – for the first time in months – but the bathroom walls were streaming with water and the air on the landing was dank and unpleasant.

  Better open a few windows, she thought, and tiptoed into the bedroom to do it while it was in her mind. Bob was lying in a hump under the covers, sound asleep and snoring, so she raised the sash very gently so as not to wake him. As she did so, she looked down idly into the street below – and there was that horrible black Humber cruising towards the house. Not the fly in the ointment again, she thought, glaring at it. That’s the last straw on a washday. I thought we’d got rid of him long since, damned nuisance. Well she’s not here so he’ll just have to go away. Maybe he won’t stop.

  But no. He parked the car, leant across the passenger seat, rolled down the window and looked out. He’d seen her before she could step back from the window. So when he waved and called hello, she had to go down and answer the door to him or he’d have woken Bob.

  She wasn’t particularly gracious. ‘What’s brought you here then?’ she said, blocking the entrance.

  Until she spoke he’d had no idea. He simply followed his anger and the car had brought him to her house. But at the sound of her voice his confusion cleared and he knew exactly why he’d come. It was to be revenged. That’s what it was. To pay Barbara out for turning him down. To put her in her place. ‘I got something to tell you,’ he said.

  ‘She’s out,’ she told him brusquely.

  ‘I know. Thass you I come to see.’

  There was something about his expression and the tone of his voice that stirred her curiosity. ‘You’d better come in then, I suppose,’ she said. ‘Don’t make a noise. My husband’s asleep.’

  It was quiet in the kitchen and there was a pleasant breeze blowing through the half-open window. She gave him tea and indicated that he should sit at the table. Then they both waited.

  ‘Well?’ she said at last.

  ‘Thass about your daughter-in-law, Mrs Wilkins,’ he told her.

  ‘I gathered that,’ she said impatiently. ‘What
about her?’

  ‘She hain’t what she ought to be.’

  He was gratified to see that she looked pleased to hear it. ‘Tell me something I don’t know.’

  ‘She was out with me this morning. Did you know that?’

  ‘No,’ Heather said grimly. ‘I didn’t but I might have guessed.’

  ‘We went to see a house.’

  That shocked her. ‘You did what?’

  ‘That was her idea,’ he said quickly. ‘I didn’t plan it, to tell the truth. I was against it. But you know how she go on. I thought she’d holler if I didn’t take her. She’s a rare one for hollerin’.’

  Heather could believe that too. But she’d thought of something else. ‘I suppose you’re the one who bought the goose.’

  He admitted it with a self-deprecating smile.

  ‘And the one she’s been going to the pictures with.’

  He admitted that too, this time assuming an apologetic expression. ‘I’m ever so sorry. You weren’t supposed to know. She made me wait for her round the corner, so’s you wouldn’t see the car.’

  ‘Artful baggage! And you’ve been to see a house, you said.’

  Her response was so encouraging he was beginning to enjoy himself. ‘She would have me put my name on the tickets,’ he confided. ‘Well not just my name actually. I had to pretend we were married. Thass what I came to tell you. Look, I’ll show you.’ He took the two stubs from his pocket and laid them on the table in front of her.

  She read them and grew pink-cheeked with anger. ‘Mr and Mrs Castlemain.’ The effrontery of it. Didn’t I say she was a bad lot? Hard as nails and bold as brass.

  ‘An’ thass not all,’ Vic said, when she looked up, ‘I’m afraid.’

  ‘Have another cup of tea,’ she said kindly, ‘and tell me all about it.’

  So Victor took tea and revenge and they went on enjoying his confidences. He described how worried he’d been to be going out with a married woman – ‘I mean, I wouldn’t have done it if it hadn’t been her. Knowing her all these years, you see. We been like brother an’ sister’ – how concerned he was in case people assumed he’d been two-timing Steve – ‘I met him when he was in Lynn, a fine man’ – how shocking it was that she’d put her name down for a house without consulting her own husband – ‘An’ not even in her own name.’

  ‘Whose then?’

  ‘Well …’ he pretended to dither. ‘Look I’m sorry to have to tell you this. I wouldn’t if it wasn’t for …’

  She insisted. ‘Whose?’

  ‘Well mine actually. Mr and Mrs Castlemain, same as on the ticket.’

  She was enraged. ‘I can’t understand it. I really can’t. I mean, what’s she playing at?’

  ‘I probably shouldn’t say this, Mrs Wilkins,’ Vic said, leaning towards her earnestly and enjoying the drama of what he was going to say, ‘but I think she wants a second string to her bow. Just in case, sort of thing. I think thass all I am. A second string to her bow.’

  The implication of it made Heather widen her eyes in anger but before she could answer she became aware that Bob was standing beside them, yawning and scratching his grey hair. They’d been so absorbed they hadn’t heard him walk in. ‘Any tea, Mother?’ he said.

  Heather looked up at him, her face full of satisfaction. ‘You’ll never believe what I’ve just heard,’ she said.

  Vic stood up before she could start the story. ‘I’d better be off,’ he said. ‘Time for work, sort of thing.’ There was something about Mr Wilkins’ expression that made him uneasy. He’d done a good job with the old girl. No point running risks and spoiling everything. ‘I’ll see myself out. Thanks for the tea.’ And went at once.

  ‘What was all that about?’ Bob asked, settling into his chair and reaching for the morning paper.

  ‘I got a nice little lamb’s kidney for your breakfast,’ Heather said, getting up to cook it. ‘There’s tea in the pot. I’ll tell you while it’s cooking.’ And did, in furious detail.

  Bob heard her out patiently but with a sinking heart.

  ‘Done to a turn,’ she said setting the kidneys before him. ‘Just how you like ’em. So what d’you think a’ that?’

  ‘What I always think. You’re a very good cook. First rate. I dunno how you do it.’

  ‘You know what I mean,’ she rebuked him, as she sat down again. ‘What d’you think of all this carry-on?’

  He chewed his first mouthful thoughtfully. ‘Don’t let’s be hasty,’ he advised. ‘Let’s hear what she’s got to say before we judge.’

  ‘She can’t say anything,’ Heather told him with bitter satisfaction. ‘Not now. Didn’t I tell you she was a bad lot? All that secrecy. I knew there was something going on.’

  ‘You’ve only got his word for it,’ Bob pointed out. ‘I wouldn’t trust him particularly. He’s got an axe to grind. An’ he’s a spiv.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Heather said crossly. ‘Take her part. I should!’

  ‘Somebody’s got to,’ he said, giving her his wry grin. ‘She’s not here to answer for herself.’

  ‘Wouldn’t make any difference if she was. There’s no answer she can give.’

  ‘Well wait an’ see, eh? Give her a chance.’

  ‘I’ve given her a darn sight too many chances, if you ask me,’ Heather said, looking fierce. ‘We should’ve spoken out right at the start, when she would go off dancing with every Tom, Dick an’ Harry. I knew it wasn’t right. I told you so at the time if you remember.’

  ‘Yes,’ he admitted, ‘you did. You told me she was a good brave girl as well.’ And when she scowled, ‘You came back here after the rocket an’ you said she was a good brave girl.’

  She had to agree, although she didn’t want to. ‘Oh she’s brave enough. I grant you that. But she’s flighty. Off with other men. There’s our poor Steve out there being shot at an’ here she is mucking about with other men. That’s what I object to. Any mother would.’ Her cheeks were flushed with righteous indignation, her mouth a determined line, her eyes daring him to disagree.

  It was politic to change the subject. ‘You got any more tea?’ he asked, holding up his cup. ‘I’m dry to me boot-straps this morning.’

  Outside in the garden their poor scuffed lawn was springing green again and there was a crop of London pride putting out purple flowers down by the shed. He could just see it through the bellying sheets and shirts on the washing line. ‘It’s a lovely day,’ he said.

  That was Victor’s feeling too as he drove happily back to the Isle of Dogs. What a triumph! he thought. That’ll teach her. She needn’t think she can put me down and get away with it. I’m more than a match for her. I’m a match for anyone. I had that stupid old mawther eating out of my hands back there. Eating out of my hands. Which reminded him that he hadn’t had any dinner. I’ll open a tin of that American steak, he decided, the minute I get in.

  But in the event the steak had to wait, for when he got to the house, Phossie was in the living room packing a suitcase. He was wearing his best suit, his hair was fairly dripping with brilliantine, and his ferrety face was closed and drawn. There were clothes strewn all over the room. The horsehair sofa was covered in shirts, the rocking chair held a pile of brand-new underwear and his spare shoes stood on the rag rug in front of the empty grate, looking as if he’d just jumped out of them.

  ‘What’s this?’ Victor asked, strolling into the room. ‘We goin’ somewhere, are we?’

  ‘Too many a’ them bleedin’ redcaps,’ Phossie explained, scooping up the shirts and stuffing them into the case. ‘I’m off, aren’t I.’

  ‘Off?’

  ‘Got to get away,’ Phossie said, trying to cram his shoes into the case on top of the shirts. ‘One a’ the buggers nearly got me. Hardly put my head out the door, had I, an’ there he was.’ He despaired of the shoes. ‘You can have these if you like. They won’t go in.’

  ‘They’re too big for me,’ Vic said, visibly turning up his nose at them. ‘Put them in a carrier
bag. Where you going then?’

  ‘North,’ Phossie said, opening the cupboard. ‘There’s redcaps everywhere you look down here.’

  ‘What about the Skibbereen? Does he know?’

  Phossie pulled an old carrier bag out of the cupboard and tipped its collection of ancient wires and rusty tools onto the floor. ‘Nope. You can tell him if you like. An’ while you’re about it, tell him them macs was perished. Right load a’ rubbish they are. I haven’t managed to shift one of ’em, have I, never mind twenty.’

  ‘Thass nothing to do with me,’ Vic said. ‘You bought the bloody things. You tell him. Do your own dirty work.’

  ‘Sod that fer a game a’ soldiers,’ Phossie said, pushing the last of his underwear into the case. ‘Like I told you, it’s every man fer himself in this lark.’ And he bolted up the stairs.

  He was going to run before I got back, Vic understood. I wasn’t supposed to find him like this. I was supposed to come home to an empty house. How underhand! And I’ll bet he’s taken all the food. That’ud be just his style.

  There were bags and cases all over the room but it didn’t take him long to find the one he wanted. He tipped the contents out behind the sofa where Phossie wouldn’t see it – tins, sugar, butter, tea, coffee – and stuffed the empty bag with an old cushion. Bloody thief, he thought, surveying the hoard. He wasn’t gonna leave me a mouthful.

  ‘Well best a’ luck!’ Phossie said, reappearing at the top of the stairs. ‘I’m off now.’ His case was so full he was bent over sideways by the weight of it. But he gathered the rest of the bags in his other hand, found his balance and staggered for the door. ‘See you around.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ Vic said, adding with heavy irony. ‘Sure you ain’t left nothing behind?’

  Nothing but the stink of his sweat and his sodden fag-ends all over the floor and a pile of filthy clothes in the bedroom. I’m not staying here with all his rubbish, Vic told himself. He’s turned it into a bloody slum. I’ll go down the pub and have a liquid lunch. I’ve got the cash for it. There was something to be said for not taking Spitfire to dinner after all.

 

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