by Angela Huth
‘In fact,’ said Stella, when he had gone, ‘he’s decided to write about his childhood and his war. Doubt he’ll get it published, but it’ll give him an aim, a discipline.’
‘Just what we all need,’ said Prue. ‘And where’s James? I’m longing to see him.’
‘Gone to his grandmother in Cromer. He loves it there and I’m afraid . . . we only have the two bedrooms. You’ll be in his, if that’s OK.’
‘Of course.’ Prue smiled, looked out of the window again.
‘I’m sorry he’s not here. I would have loved you to see him. He cheers Philip up enormously. He sits on his knee and gets read to for hours.’
‘And Philip still has no idea?’
‘Not a clue. I’m sure of that. And he never will know.’
‘And Joe?’
‘Joe said it was the price we had to pay, but my having his child is some compensation for having to lead our lives apart. At the funeral I managed to show him a small snapshot. Perhaps I shouldn’t have done that. He went a deadly white. He said, “Stella – oh, God, Stella, why did it have to be like this?”’ She shrugged. ‘We both knew why it had to be like this, but I know neither of us regrets James and one day we’ll tell him about his real father. Not possible to do that now. It would kill Philip to think James wasn’t his son. He’s a marvellous father . . .’
Prue told Stella about the birth of her own son. Stella, horrified by the pigs’ terrifying aggression, suggested the whole thing had been traumatizing.
‘It wasn’t, really,’ said Prue. ‘I know that sounds odd but I felt it was more a waste of time than a devastating event. By the time I became pregnant I knew the so-called marriage was on the rocks, and my ambition to have a baby by a man I love was not to be. So I was really surprised when the disaster had very little effect on me.’
‘And Barry?’
‘Barry was broken-hearted. The baby’s death was the moment he realized, I think, that there was no use struggling on. He would have loved a son. I sometimes think what life might have been like, in the claustrophobia of The Larches, confined by looking after a baby, Barry endlessly telling me how it ought to be done . . .’ Prue paused. ‘Besides, as the child grew up he might have noticed his son hadn’t inherited anything of his dark looks.’
‘You mean . . .’ ‘I’m not absolutely sure.’
‘Oh Prue, what have you been up to? What muddles we get into when timing goes awry.’
‘We do. But there’s no point not hoping.’
They walked along a dyke that curved round fields on one side, marshland on the other. At some point the marsh melded with the waters of the staithe, where small boats quivered, their sails down. The distant sea seemed never to get any nearer. The horizon played its usual trick of dallying with the water so that it was unclear where one ended and the other began. The sky, here the colour of sea gorse, was disturbed every now and then by flighting geese. But there were no raucous calls of gulls, just an arched canopy of silence.
‘I didn’t know Norfolk at all,’ said Stella, ‘but I do love it here. It must be one of the quietest places in England. I love the fact that the villagers have lived here for generations and the shop, where there’s always a run on Oxo cubes, probably hasn’t changed for fifty years. Even in the summer there are few people on the beach. Visitors go to Cromer, where there are ice creams and amusement arcades. We’re lucky to be here now. One day it’ll all be discovered, changed, overrun. I don’t like to imagine it.’
‘But don’t you sometimes long for a bit of fun?’ Prue asked. ‘You can’t live for ever on scenery.’
‘Philip’s a whole-time job. He does his best, but there’s so much he can’t do himself. And the “scenery”, as you call it, makes up for everything. I go for a walk every day on my own. I could never miss that, though I always wonder if I’m going to return to some disaster.’
‘Has Joe ever been here?’
‘Not as far as I know. I can’t think of anything I’d love more than for him to come. But after our French trip, when I came back to Philip and he to Janet, we’ve never been in touch. We can’t be. It wouldn’t be fair. The only time I’ve seen him was at Mrs Lawrence’s funeral, and the shock of that – the shock of realizing nothing had changed – is still with me. In a silly way I still hope that one day . . . Well, what can I hope for? Janet’s still young and healthy and they’ll have more children. As for Philip . . . I can’t ever leave him. I can’t wish him dead. I do love him in a way that you can love a good man, and yet not . . . When we left Hallows Farm and I told him I was off to France for a week with Joe, he was magnanimous. I didn’t ask him. I told him. “A week of your life with the man you love isn’t much,” he said. “You go and enjoy yourselves. I’ll never be able to give you that.” What it cost him, I’ll never know. Neither of us has ever mentioned it since. He didn’t even ask if Joe had been at the funeral when I got back from Yorkshire. I don’t think he can bear to mention his name.’
‘What about Janet? How did she take your week away?’
‘She was pretty hysterical, Mrs Lawrence said. But Joe gave her no choice. I think she thought that if she didn’t agree to the plan he might never marry her. But of course once they were married Joe, being the honourable man he is, behaved – still does behave, I imagine – like a good husband. Though you only have to see him, as we did in Yorkshire, to know that—’
‘Quite,’ said Prue.
Stella shrugged, her eyes full of sky and tears, and they turned back.
When they arrived at the bungalow they found Philip looking pleased with himself. He had laid the table for tea, a job, Prue realized, that would have cost him many journeys of twisting and turning round the kitchen in his chair as he fetched plates and jams and everything needed for proper tea. On the table beside him he had the local paper, and was studying a notice he had marked with a red pencil.
‘Found something that may be of interest here,’ he said. ‘We’re very quiet in Norfolk, but sometimes we burst into parties. It’s not going to be as dull as you thought, Prue.’ He smiled at her.
‘Don’t be silly. I never thought it would be dull – how could it be with you and Stella? I’ve been longing for it.’
‘Well, anyway, tomorrow night there’s a dance at the air base. Big band. Beer. Sausage rolls and so on. How about that?’
Almost imperceptibly, as she poured the tea, Stella brightened. ‘If Prue wants to go,’ she said, ‘I’m game.’
‘Course I want to go, if it’s OK with you.’ Prue’s least exciting clothes, which she had brought thinking them suitable for Norfolk, were reeling through her mind. Perhaps her red daisies might do—
‘And actually,’ said Philip, ‘you’ll be surprised to hear I’m coming too. Used to love dancing, didn’t I, Stella?’ He turned to Prue. ‘Oh yes, Stella and I used to dance.’ He swivelled his head to his wife. ‘Didn’t we, darling?’
‘We did,’ said Stella. ‘We did. Philip was a good dancer.’
The next day it rained. Rather than join Stella on her daily walk, Prue stayed in her bedroom, rummaging through half a dozen dresses, pairs of shoes and most of her hair bows. She sat on the bed surrounded by stuffed animals belonging to James. A wire mobile hung with shells, made by Philip, swung from the ceiling: when the wind rattled the windows the shells made an empty, chinking sound, less musical than bells. Prue smiled. She was in a state of excited hope: surely among a whole camp of American servicemen there would be one . . . A single possibility was all she asked. An evening of fun. Something she hadn’t had for a long time.
That evening they gathered in the kitchen, the three of them, united in their expectations. Though what could Philip hope for? Prue wondered. He wore a beautiful silk scarf in the open neck of his shirt, and had Brylcreemed his hair so that it was a flat and shining helmet. Stella was transformed, almost the Stella of Joe days at Hallows Farm. She had disguised the patches under her eyes with swipes of Max Factor foundation, and resuscitated her beautiful m
outh with a deep red lipstick. Her hair, loosened from its band, swung about her shoulders. She was almost exactly as the picture Prue would always hold in her mind. The thought of such a creature stuck here for years and years, with a man who couldn’t dance, brought tears to her eyes. Then when she remembered the amount of mascara she had applied, they vanished.
They went out into the wind and rain to the car, floral skirts whipping about the skinniness of their thighs, hair everywhere. Prue offered to help, but her help was not needed. Getting into the car was a routine Philip and Stella had perfected. Prue marvelled at Stella’s patience as she lifted each of Philip’s feet into the footwell. It was all so slow. Prue herself couldn’t imagine putting up with such slowness for a single day. Observing the laborious process, even this one time, fired her impatience. She was both ashamed of herself and longing to be off. Stella, she thought, was a saint.
As they entered the large hall where the dance was to be held it occurred to Prue that the organizers of all such gatherings, wherever they took place, had the same idea about decorating, and what food to provide: for this East Anglian hall was almost identical to the one where Stella had danced with the wing commander so brilliantly that everyone else had stood back to watch – and where Prue had overdone the gin and lime and could scarcely stand upright for the national anthem. She looked round, smiling, past and present clashing and swerving in her mind. The same paper chains were pinned to the curtains, a sprinkling of tinsel randomly scattered among them. The old blackout stuff had not been taken down but enlivened with a few cotton-wool snowflakes. ‘Very early winter, here,’ she whispered to Stella who, with blazing eyes, laughed. They both remembered. God, how they remembered.
Stella pushed Philip’s wheelchair through the crowds, who parted as they advanced, towards an empty table near the stage. On one side of the hall there was a long table rich in post-war party food, which seemed not to have improved a jot in the last four years: more bridge rolls, more jellies scattered with silver balls, plates of Spam arranged on dying lettuce leaves, a few shavings of gherkin to add interest.
‘Blimey,’ said Prue. ‘Nothing’s changed.’ Then she looked down on Philip’s shining head and remembered how wrong she was.
They sat at the free table near the stage. A quartet of musicians were rumbling through hits of the day without much energy, but rows of metal chairs behind them promised that the big band would appear later. Philip offered to go to the bar for drinks.
‘I’ll go,’ said Prue at once.
‘No, no. Let me.’ Philip quickly swivelled his chair away from the table.
‘Let him,’ said Stella.
‘Gin and lime, is it, Prue?’
‘No thanks. Just a lager.’ Tonight she wanted to keep her head.
The thump of the music so close to them meant that Stella and Prue saw little point in trying to talk. In any case Prue had no interest in conversation. She wanted to see what was on offer.
A large crowd of tall American pilots was gathered at the far end of the hall by the bar. Some of them gently punched each other. There was much laughter. They, too, seemed bent on finding out what the evening might hold.
Prue was glad to see that among the girls there wasn’t much serious competition. Many of them, corralled into giggling groups, had not benefited from mothers who had Mrs Lumley’s skill with her needle and bits of pre-war material. There was a single blonde in a dress of orange poppies – brighter than all the rest, but not a dress you could admire. The rest were a dowdy lot who had concentrated on the lipstick and overdone the permanent waves. Prue flicked at the skirt of her expensive daisy dress, pushed the short sleeves higher, and tugged at the sweetheart neck to lower it enough to expose her shallow cleavage.
Stella was amused. ‘Don’t worry, you’re the star. They’ll be fighting for you.’
Prue shook her head, blushed. Not at Stella’s words but because she was aware that every pilot in the distant crowd had turned with one accord and was staring across the hall at her and Stella. She slipped off her wedding ring, handed it across the table. ‘Keep this for me,’ she said.
Philip returned to the table. The drinks had been put on a tray, which was balanced across the arms of the wheelchair.
‘Well done, and thanks,’ said Prue, with the kind of exuberance that comes from knowing that something exciting might be about to happen.
‘I can still be useful on occasion,’ said Philip, with a twist of his mouth.
The music above them plodded on. The three of them drank, looking about but not talking. Eventually the weary trio wandered off, instruments slack in their hands. Then, with a great surge of energy, a group of some twenty musicians hurried onto the stage and took their places on the chairs. Prue’s heart pounded as she made a plan. She saw a few of the pilots take a step or two forward, as if to cross the vast floor and approach their table, but then think better of it and step back to much jeering. She smiled, glanced up at the stage. Several of the musicians were worth a second look, too. Then, they were off. With an uproarious boom they launched into ‘In The Mood’. Prue could contain herself no longer. She stood up. Stella and Philip laughed at her. Philip reached for one of Stella’s hands.
With a toss of her head Prue spraunced off towards the group of cowardly servicemen, hips flicking so that the daisy hem of her dress flirted round her knees. As she got nearer, aware that every single one of them was watching her progress, she tried to distinguish between the mass of smiling, mostly handsome faces. Then she was among them.
‘Hiya, doll,’ said one, and touched her arm. ‘Shall we dance?’
Prue took in a narrow face and narrow shoulders, as a pilot edged towards her with a narrow smile. Then, too quickly for her to be sure what had happened, a very tall man stepped forward, put a hand round her waist, and she found they moved to the dance-floor. The music seemed to come both up from the floor and down from the ceiling – pounding, enveloping, demanding.
Prue, flung about by her tall partner, was just aware of stares from the other girls, and the general move forward by the rest of the Americans as they chose partners and moved onto the floor. In a moment it was crowded with dancers. Stella and Philip, at their table, hands still clasped, watched.
When the music came to an end, Prue and her partner were hemmed in by dancers in the middle of the floor. Prue was panting. Her breasts rose quickly up and down. Her partner was looking down at her, solemn-faced. ‘Why, thank you, ma’am,’ he said. He gave a small bow. ‘If there’s just time to introduce ourselves – I’m Rudolph. Rudolph Vincent Basie Junior.’
‘I’m Prue.’
‘I guess that must be Prudence – my grandmother’s name.’
The music started again, a jitterbug. Rudolph Vincent Basie Junior did not bother to ask Prue for this dance: with a smile of the whitest teeth she had ever seen, he simply took hold of her and they jitterbugged as if they’d been partners for life, continued for three more dances, never speaking.
Finally, when the band paused for a drink, Rudolph moved his hand to Prue’s waist and guided her to the bar. He bought two glasses of lager. ‘Not much place to sit down,’ he said.
‘My friend Stella and her husband are at a table by the stage. We could go and join them.’ An idea came to her. Although she had known Rudolph for less than an hour, she felt she could put it to him. ‘My friend Stella,’ she said, ‘is a marvellous dancer. Once at a party we went to she was picked up by a very small wing commander, a professional dancer, and they gave such a great show that all the other dancers came off the floor. But her husband was wounded in the Navy. Wheelchair for life. I was wondering . . . I know how much she’d love . . .’ Rudolph nodded. He understood at once.
They made their way to the table. The music started before they sat down. Prue quickly introduced Rudolph and immediately he turned to Stella. ‘I hear you’re something of a dancer,’ he said. ‘Would you care to have a go at this one with me? I’d be honoured.’
Stella gl
anced at Philip.
‘Go on, darling,’ he said. Stella pushed back her hair, stood very upright facing Rudolph. Her beauty, returned tonight in abundance, caused a lurch in Prue’s heart. As she watched them push their way into the crowd and begin to dance, conflicting sensations gripped her.
‘It’s going to happen again,’ said Philip, with a wry smile. ‘Just look.’
‘You’re right,’ agreed Prue. Already dancers near to them were turning their heads, moving back to leave more space. Others followed their example. Soon there were only three couples left, then none but Rudolph and Stella.
Prue’s eyes never left them. She was thrilled by Stella’s obvious excitement at this public display of sensational dancing, but she also would have liked it to be her and Rudolph who won the acclaim. When she glanced briefly away from the whirling couple, she saw Philip’s downturned mouth. A muscle flicked in his cheek – though when he saw Prue’s face he smiled. She could not bear the melancholy in his eyes, the knowing what he must be feeling.
The band was enjoying the solo as much as the dancers. They played on for a long time. When finally they stopped everyone applauded. Prue stood up – secretly, meanly, glad the exhibition had come to an end. She climbed onto the table and clapped harder than anyone. For a moment, as Rudolph led Stella back, she was on a level with him, which made him smile his white smile again.
‘You were marvellous, darling,’ said Philip at once to Stella. ‘Haven’t lost your touch.’
Stella’s breasts were heaving, her cheeks were scarlet. She sat down, took Philip’s hand again.
‘Thank you, ma’am,’ Rudolph said to her. ‘That was wonderful. A great pleasure. There’s not many who can dance like you.’