There Is No Going Home

by Madalyn Morgan

  Closing the bedroom curtains, Ena saw a taxi pull up on the far side of the road. A man got out with a bunch of flowers in one hand and a bottle in the other. Ena watched him pay the driver, and then run across the road to Helen’s front door. A second later she heard the bell.

  The door to her room opened into the small front hall. She put her ear against it.

  Helen said, ‘Hello. What a lovely surprise.’

  The man said something Ena didn’t catch followed by, ‘I called on the off-chance, but if it isn’t convenient…’

  ‘No, it’s fine,’ Helen said. ‘Come in, let me take your coat.’

  Ena went back to the window and finished drawing the curtains. She switched on the bedside lamp and sat on the bed. She hadn’t reckoned on Helen having visitors, but then why wouldn’t she? Checking her hair in the mirror, Ena teased a curl that had fallen onto her brow back into place. After straightening her skirt she put on her shoes and left her bedroom.

  Opening the door to the dining room, she saw Helen talking to the man by the fire. Her friend was looking up into the man’s face and he was smiling down at her. They were enjoying an intimate conversation, Ena thought, and turned to leave.

  ‘Ena?’ Helen called.

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know you had a guest,’ she said, feeling like the proverbial gooseberry.

  ‘Come and meet Shaun. Shaun and I worked together at Leconfield House until he was head-hunted by MI6.’

  ‘Don’t believe a word of what Helen says, Ena. I was side-lined. Five didn’t know what to do with me, so they handed me over to Six like a lamb to the slaughter.’

  Helen slapped him playfully on the shoulder. Then, taking him by the arm, walked him across the room to Ena. ‘Shaun O’Shaughnessy, this is my friend, Ena Green.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Ena.’

  ‘And I you, Shaun.’

  Shaun looked into Ena’s eyes for rather too long, and he smiled too confidently for Ena’s liking. He was good looking with fair, almost blond hair, strong features and piercing green eyes. A charmer her mother would have called him; one for the ladies. Not this lady, Ena thought. She offered him her hand. Instead of shaking it, he kissed it.

  Ena laughed. ‘You wouldn’t be Irish by any chance, would you, Mr O’Shaughnessy?’

  ‘I would. Shaun O’Shaughnessy at your service,’ he said, with a sweeping bow. ‘But how did you know? Was it my natural good looks, or my emerald green eyes?’

  Ena laughed. ‘It was your accent.’

  ‘Tell the truth, Ena, it was the Blarney,’ Helen said, handing Ena a glass of wine. ‘Make yourself at home, Shaun, I’m going to check on the dinner.’

  ‘I’ll help,’ Ena said, putting her glass on the table.

  ‘No, darling. You stay here and keep Shaun amused. Ha!’ Helen said, ‘I expect it will be the other way around. There is no stopping O’Shaughnessy when he gets going. Ta, ta,’ she said, and holding her glass aloft, left the dining room.

  Shaun dropped into the chair nearest to the fire, crossed his legs and pointed to the chair opposite. ‘Well, Ena, tell me about yourself,’ he said, raising his glass to her.

  She laughed. ‘Is that what they call a “chat up” line, or is it the way MI6 interrogate women these days?’

  ‘I’m sure I wouldn’t know. Come now, spill the beans. What are you doing hiding yourself away down here in this quiet little suburb of Brighton, when you could be rocking and rolling the night away at the Palace Ballroom?’

  ‘I’m not hiding, I have temporarily left the hustle and bustle of city life behind for a few days of peace and quiet.’

  ‘There? Didn’t I say you are no fun at all?’ Shaun closed his eyes, leaned sideways and swung his long legs over the arm of the chair.

  Ena laughed again. Having got over the initial shock of seeing a stranger in the house, she was enjoying herself. Although he was a bit full of himself, she was warming to Shaun O’Shaughnessy and was enjoying his company.

  Shaun’s glass was empty. Ena left her seat and replenished his drink. She topped up her own. ‘Is Shaun O’Shaughnessy your real name?’

  ‘Of course,’ he said, indignantly, opening his eyes, ‘why do you ask?’

  ‘It sounds like the name an actor would choose.’

  ‘When they join Equity, do you mean?’

  ‘It is, isn’t it? Go on, admit it. O’Shaughnessy isn’t your real name.’

  ‘Don’t you like it?’

  ‘I don’t have to like it, it isn’t my name.’

  ‘Mm,’ Shaun sat upright. He took his glass by the stem and squinted at her through the top of the bowl. ‘No,’ he said, ‘it wouldn’t suit you.’

  Ena laughed at his performance. ‘No, it wouldn’t.’

  ‘Then I shall keep it,’ he said.

  A knock at the door interrupted their conversation. Ena was nearest and opened it.

  ‘What are you two laughing about?’ Helen, balancing dishes of hot food and serving spoons on a large silver tray, crossed to the table. ‘Ena, dear, would you take mats and cutlery from the drawer in the dresser and lay three places?’ she asked, setting the steaming food down in the middle of the table. ‘Won’t be a tick.’

  By the time Ena had laid the table, Helen was back with plates and another bottle of red wine. ‘Shaun, make yourself useful and open this.’

  ‘Yes, Ma’am.’ Shaun saluted, downed his wine and stood the glass in the hearth. Helen handed him a bone-handled corkscrew. ‘What have we here?’ He lifted the bottle and examined the label. ‘Chateau le plonk, 1958 - and a very good year it is too,’ he said, plunging the metal spike of the corkscrew into the top of the bottle. He embedded the cork up to its handle, gripped the bottle with one hand and heaved the corkscrew out with the other. The cork made a dull pop as it parted company with the bottle and Shaun put it up to his nose and sniffed.

  ‘For goodness sake, Shaun, just pour the damn stuff.’ Helen said, ‘it doesn’t have a bouquet.’

  Shaun giggled as Helen dished up. ‘Smells good. Beef bourgeoning?’ he teased, sampling the beef and vegetables in a thick herb gravy.

  ‘Beef stew, darling, with half a bottle of red wine in it. And before you ask, no it wasn’t Chateau le plonk, it was something even cheaper.’

  ‘Whatever you put in it, Helen, it’s delicious,’ Ena said, helping herself to more gravy.

  When they had finished the main course, Helen piled the dirty dishes on the tray and took them to the kitchen, returning shortly afterwards with coffee pot, cups and saucers, and a selection of cheeses.

  Nibbling on chunks of cheese and drinking wine, the three companions talked and laughed. Ena observed how easy the conversation flowed between Helen and Shaun. Listening to them reminded her how easy it had once been between her and Henry. They never threw dinner parties, which their friends often did, but there was always food in the cupboard and refrigerator that she could whip into a meal if anyone called, which they did often when she and Henry were first married. When did their friends stop calling? When did she and Henry become too busy to call on them?

  Suddenly aware that the conversation had stopped, Ena looked up. Shaun, with his head tilted on one side, was grinning. Helen was looking at her with anticipation. ‘I’m sorry,’ Ena said, ‘I was miles away. What were you saying?’

  ‘That the three of us should go to the Dome tomorrow night. Chris Barber’s Jazz Band is on. How about it?’

  ‘I’d love to go,’ Ena said.

  ‘Then I shall book a table for three.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  From the outside the Dome, like the Brighton Pavilion, was a mixture of Regency grandeur with exotic Indian and Chinese influences. Inside it was 1930s Art Deco with wall-to-wall walnut panelling. Ena and Helen went to the ladies’ cloakroom to leave their coats and powder their noses, while Shaun headed off to the bar. When they arrived in the ballroom, Shaun was sitting at a table tapping his feet to ‘Bugle Boy March’.

  ‘May I hav
e this dance?’ he said, as soon as Ena was seated.

  She looked at Helen. ‘Do you mind?’

  ‘Good Lord, no. Go on,’ Helen said, ‘enjoy yourself.’

  Out on the dance floor Shaun took hold of Ena’s hands and flicking his feet out, rocked back and forth and then stepped sideways. Ena copied him and in no time she was spinning round and going under Shaun’s arm. Shaun next danced with Helen and Ena sat the dance out.

  The three friends - for Shaun had proved himself to be a friend - talked and joked, laughed and drank wine. Ena wished she led a more normal life, met up with friends, and went to jazz clubs; there were enough in London. She was having fun for the first time in years. She wanted this life. Not the life of spies and shadows.

  ‘Penny for them?’ Shaun whispered in Ena’s ear.

  ‘Not worth it,’ she said, getting up. ‘Come on, let’s dance.’

  They danced the Lindy Hop to ‘Mama Don’t Allow’ and rock and rolled to ‘Rockin’ in Rhythm’. When it was time to leave, Ena was exhausted.

  ‘Hello again,’ Shaun said, swanning past Ena when she opened the front door the following night. ‘Helen, darling,’ he called, waving a bottle of red wine and crossing the hall to meet Helen coming out of the kitchen.

  Helen turned and laughed. ‘I don’t see you for donkey’s years and then I see you three nights on the trot.’

  ‘Trot? Don’t speak to me about dancing,’ he grimaced, ‘my feet haven’t recovered from last night yet.’

  Helen laughed again. ‘Un-cork the wine, I’ll get the glasses.’

  Shaun followed Helen into the dining room and took the corkscrew from the sideboard where it had been left the night before. ‘How are you feeling this evening, Ena?’ he asked, taking the cork out of the bottle.

  ‘Good, thank you.’

  ‘Good? Who wants to be good?’ he said, putting the wine bottle on the table and taking Ena by the hand.

  ‘If you’ll excuse me.’ She extracted her hand from his. ‘I’ll see if Helen needs any help in the kitchen.’

  Shaun raised an eyebrow and looked disappointed, which annoyed Ena. He was very forward. They had only known each for other a couple of days - and he knew she was married. Unless Helen had told him she and Henry hadn’t been getting on. But no, Helen wouldn’t break a confidence.

  ‘Shaun is getting fresh,’ Ena said, stirring the carrot and onion soup.

  Helen laughed and flapped her hand. ‘Getting fresh with you? Shaun?’

  And why not, Ena thought. She was put out by her friend’s rejection of the possibility.

  ‘Yes! He held my hand as if he was trying to woo me.’

  ‘He was flattering you, darling. Shaun is as queer as a row of pink tents on a Brighton campsite on St. Valentine’s night.’

  Ena had wondered, but she didn’t make assumptions. Some of the old biddies in Lowarth had assumed Henry was a homosexual because he wasn’t married with children by the time he was twenty-five, as most men they knew were. There was nothing queer about him, then or now. As she stirred the soup Ena wondered how Henry was managing without her. She hoped he was lonely, missing her, and the next time she telephoned he would beg her to come home. A sad smile played on her lips. Truth was, although she’d had fun in Brighton, she was missing him.

  ‘Are you trying to burn the soup, Ena?’ Helen took the spoon out of her hand and turned off the gas. ‘Thick enough, don’t you think?’

  Ena bit her bottom lip. ‘Sorry, I was thinking about Henry.’

  ‘Missing him?’

  ‘No. Well, yes, a little.’

  Helen poured the soup into a tureen. ‘Take this in, I’ll bring the bread.’

  While they ate, they talked about all manner of things - from the Dome to the Minchin Club - owned and frequented by gangsters.

  ‘The Minchin Club sounds familiar,’ Ena said.

  ‘You may have read about it in the News of The World. The Minchin Club is quite possibly the most famous - or infamous - club outside south London.’

  ‘Because of gangsters?’

  ‘And movie stars, producers, West End actors. They all come down from London to the Minchin,’ Shaun boasted.

  The conversation moved onto London’s nightlife, work, and then the possibility of there being a mole at Leconfield House.

  Shaun gasped and clasped his hands over his mouth. ‘Maybe the mole is your hubby.’

  Helen laughed, but Ena didn’t think the joke was funny. ‘Not high enough up the food chain,’ she said, without thinking. She waited for one of them to ask her why she thought the mole was high ranking. They didn’t so she quickly changed the subject. ‘How long did you work at Leconfield house, Shaun?’

  ‘Too long. I was a minion, a shuffler of papers. The most interesting thing I did at Five was rubber-stamp documents. Classified this, highly classified that. No, Five wasn’t for me. It was so boring.’ He gave a theatrical shudder.

  ‘But never mind about me. I was an office drudge. You, on the other hand, have an interesting job. You work for the Home Office, don’t you?’

  ‘I wouldn’t call it interesting, exactly. It’s admin work.’ Ena laughed. She wasn’t going to tell her fellow dinner guest anything she was sure he didn’t already know. ‘The kind of documents that you rubber-stamped my colleague and I put in folders and file in alphabetical order.’

  ‘I was sorry to hear about your other colleague, the one that jumped - or was pushed - off Waterloo Bridge.’

  Ena shot Helen a questioning look. Helen lifted her shoulders as if to say, I didn’t tell him.

  Ena felt her heart rate speed up. She suddenly felt very hot. ‘Who told you about Sid?’

  ‘Oh heck. Is it a secret? The spooks at MI6 are such gossips.’

  ‘No, it isn’t a secret that Sid committed suicide.’

  Exaggerating the expression, Shaun pressed his lips together and rolled his eyes at the ceiling. A childish reaction, Ena thought.

  ‘What is it, Shaun?’ Helen pointed a finger at him. ‘Come on, out with it. What do you know that we don’t?’

  ‘My lips are sealed. I’ve said too much already.’

  ‘What are they saying at Six?’

  ‘No. I’m saying no more. I’ve upset Ena.’

  ‘Tittle-tattle doesn’t upset me,’ Ena said, ‘though I’d have thought your lot at Six would have had more respect for someone in the same profession.’

  ‘I agree with Ena,’ Helen said, getting up. ‘I am going to fetch another bottle of wine from the kitchen. By the time I get back, I want you two to have kissed and made up. We’re on the same side, after all.’

  As soon as Helen had left the room, Shaun extended his hand to Ena. She didn’t take it. ‘Look,’ he began, ‘I was told that a bloke named Collin, or Collins, shoved your pal off Waterloo Bridge.’

  Collins? How the hell has he heard about Collins? Ena’s heart thumped against her ribcage and her stomach lurched, but she managed to stay outwardly calm. ‘I have to say, I haven’t heard that name on the HO’s gossip grapevine. But you never know.’ Ena put her forefinger to her lips and frowned. ‘Collin?’ she mused. ‘If Sid was queer,’ she said, in an attempt to embarrass Shaun, ‘Collin might have been his lover.’ She saw Shaun stiffen. She had touched a nerve. ‘If Sid was queer,’ she said again, ‘but he wasn’t.’

  Ena hated the word, queer. It was offensive and it implied a person wasn’t right somehow. But this bloody man brought out the worst in her.

  ‘Ena, I’m sorry. I must have been misinformed.’

  ‘Yes, you must.’ Damn the man. Who told him about Collins? Only four people knew about the piece of paper in Sid’s mouth with Collins written on it: Director Bentley, Detective Inspector Powell, Artie and herself. She would gamble her life that it wasn’t Dick Bentley or DI Powell who had talked out of place. It could only have been Artie. Ena felt tears of anger building up at the back of her eyes and blinked.

  She didn’t want to protest too much, or O’Shaughnessy would gu
ess she knew about Collins, but she wasn’t going to let him off without giving him a piece of her mind. ‘Sid Parfitt was not only my colleague, he was my friend. That he committed suicide is bad enough for his friends and family, but to hear gossip that implies some homosexual thug killed Sid is unkind and unnecessary. I shall wait for the police report. I suggest you do the same.’ She turned to see Helen coming in with the promised bottle of wine. She refused a refill saying she’d had enough alcohol.

  Helen said she had too and left the room again to make coffee. When she was out of earshot, Shaun asked Ena not to tell her that he had made a stupid assumption about Sid Parfitt’s death. Ena thought about saying she wouldn’t tell Helen if he told her who had given him the name Collins, but decided against it. She didn’t want him to think the name meant anything to her and kept quiet.

  ‘I won’t say anything. Helen has been very good to me. I don’t wish to upset her.’

  Shaun offered Ena his hand again. This time, although she wanted to stab it with the corkscrew, she took it. ‘Friends?’

  ‘Friends,’ she lied.

  ‘Thank goodness you two have made up,’ Helen said, returning with a tray of coffee. Brrrr! it’s cold in the kitchen.’ She poured coffee for the three of them and, although the conversation had lost its earlier feel of camaraderie, Ena smiled in the right places and contributed often enough to appear as if she was enjoying herself.

  At midnight, Shaun said it was time he left. Ena wanted to agree with him, but said nothing. Helen offered to telephone for a cab, but he said he would walk, it would do him good. When Helen went to fetch his coat Shaun apologised to Ena again, and again he asked her not to tell Helen what he’d said about her friend Sid. Ena, for the second time, said she wouldn’t say anything. And when Helen returned with his coat, she allowed Shaun to give her a peck on the cheek, by way of saying goodnight.

  It was one o’clock by the time Ena and Helen had cleared the dining room table and washed up.

  ‘Good night, Helen. Thank you for the lovely meal,’ Ena said, hugging her friend when they had put out the lights and were in the hall about to go their separate ways - Helen upstairs to her bedroom and Ena to the spare room on the ground floor next to the front door.