The Faithful

by Juliet West

  ‘But where is the baby now?’

  ‘She’s still there! With the ghastly Shaw women. I’m allowed to visit once a week. And by the end of the month Jasmin will be gone. Adopted. I won’t even know her new name.’ She began to cry into her half-eaten cone.

  Lucia put her arm around Hazel. ‘Adopted against your will?’

  ‘Oh, I’ll have to sign the papers, but what else can I do? Mother won’t have Jasmin in the house. Father’s in Paris with his mistress. He can’t even bring himself to speak to me. There’s nowhere I can go, Lucia. I’d leave home, I’d sleep on the streets, in this shelter – under the pier, for heaven’s sake! But how can I with a baby?’

  ‘They’d take you into one of those homes for fallen girls,’ said Lucia, flicking away some cone crumbs that had fallen in her lap. ‘Or the poorhouse.’

  Hazel cried harder, and Lucia’s arm tightened around her shoulders.

  ‘Don’t be upset, dearest Hazel. I have an idea. Listen, I’ve been desperate to move out, find a flat, but Father won’t let me leave unless I have a flatmate, and not one of my friends has the gumption. Edith’s so safe, you know?’

  Hazel’s head lifted. Hope flared in her chest, though she tried to beat it down. ‘But he won’t let you move in with me, will he? A girl with a baby?’

  ‘We won’t mention that bit.’

  ‘What if he visits?’

  ‘Unlikely. Barely moves from his chair. But if he does turn up, we’ll find some story. You might have a married sister, mightn’t you, a little niece come to stay?’

  Hazel nodded, unable to speak because she was too terrified the moment might somehow disappear, that Lucia would laugh and say it was a mad idea after all. But Lucia didn’t laugh. She gave Hazel a tender pat on the shoulder, then stood up with a smile.

  ‘Come back to camp with me now,’ she said. ‘We can chat it through while we’re walking. And there’s a meeting in the marquee at five. I’m one of the speakers, can you believe? Do come, Hazel. It might take your mind off everything. It’ll be just the tonic you need.’

  It was part of the bargain, Hazel realized, her contribution along with the housework. And she was happy enough to become a blackshirt; it seemed a natural thing to do. Lucia was right: when she was at meetings or drum practice, her thoughts never wandered to darker territory. Her mind was focused, organized, looking only to the future, the next beat in the bar. It was a relief to have something to believe in.

  The first fortnight in the flat had been dream-like, settling in to her new room with Jasmin, the two of them together, properly, for the very first time. Lucia looked after Jasmin while Hazel went for job interviews, and when she was offered a post at Morris & Weaver, Lucia found the nursery for Jasmin. There’d been an article about it in the Blackshirt – a new crèche just half a mile from their flat, open from seven-thirty in the morning till six at night, founded in memory of Sir Oswald’s late wife. ‘Poor Cimmie loved children,’ said Lucia. ‘Such a tragedy she was taken so young.’

  Early-morning shadows played on the ceiling. Jasmin began to whimper – a yell was imminent. Hazel tiptoed across the cold cork tiles into the kitchen. She lit the gas ring, poured milk into a small pan and placed the pan over the heat. Half-awake, she opened the cupboard for a bottle, and it was only then that she noticed the letter on the table. It was addressed to her, and there was a note from Lucia scrawled in pencil across the front of the envelope. Your mother appeared at HQ, Lucia’s note read. She left this letter. PS Back v late, please don’t wake me in the morning.

  Hazel picked up the envelope and held it for a while. She put her finger into the top corner but could not bring herself to break the seal.

  The milk puffed and sizzled and boiled over onto the stove.

  She reached the crèche just after eight and rang the bell. Mrs Allen answered, a stout woman and a dedicated blackshirt. Jasmin put her arms out and Mrs Allen took her with a smile. ‘Here’s my pretty girl,’ she said, trying not to wince as Jasmin tugged at an ivory clasp that fixed the bun in her thick greying hair. Mrs Allen produced something from her pinny pocket – a crudely jig-sawed animal that could have been a lion or a horse – and Jasmin’s fist curled around it.

  ‘She’ll only try to eat it,’ said Hazel.

  Mrs Allen laughed, pushing the hair clasp back into place. ‘I know, I know, everything in the mouth. She’s teething, bless her. Look at her little face.’

  Hazel looked. Jasmin’s cheeks were bright red and her nose was running. What could that have to do with teeth?

  ‘Does it hurt her?’ asked Hazel. ‘Only . . . well, she cries a lot at night.’

  ‘Some of ’em breeze through it and others aren’t so lucky. You’ll find powders and potions at the chemist,’ said Mrs Allen. ‘And we all have our own pet remedies. My mum swore by an egg in a sock, hung above the cradle. Ask your mother, dear. She’ll remember what worked for you. And your husband’s mother, if you’re close?’

  Mrs Allen cast a sly glance downwards. Hazel put her hands into her pockets, cursing herself because in the daze of the morning she had forgotten to put on the wedding ring. The fiction had been Lucia’s idea, to stall any gossip. Hazel had a husband, a ne’er-do-well who’d let her down. The word ‘abandoned’ was not to be mentioned, but that would be the unspoken truth, should anyone cast for details.

  ‘Yes, good idea. I’ll ask my mother.’

  ‘Leave the pram there, dear. Poppy will put it under the awning later. Running a little late, are we?’

  Hurrying to the bus stop, Hazel brushed herself down and checked for any signs: splodges of sicked-up milk on the shoulder of her coat, or a smear of Germolene on her wrist. Usually she would remove the wedding ring once she was safely on the bus. Morris & Weaver did not employ married women, still less an unmarried woman with a baby. This morning, at least, the ring was one less thing to remember.

  Morris & Weaver sold high-class wallpaper and soft furnishings, with a shop in Tottenham Court Road and offices in Pimlico: a Regency house over three floors. There were two rooms on each floor, and Hazel worked in accounts, the top room at the back of the building, above the light-flooded studios where the designers sketched and coloured. From the window she could glimpse the pale brick of the Tate Gallery, and she was half tempted to visit in her lunch hour, but she never quite dared because there was a chance she might run into her mother or one of her friends, visiting the latest talked-about exhibition. Instead she wandered along Millbank and ate her sandwiches on a quiet bench. It was best not to take lunch with the other girls from the office. They tended to ask questions that Hazel did not want to answer. She kept her story simple: she was Miss Alexander, up from Sussex, studying accountancy in the evenings, which meant she was too busy to go out to concerts or dances after work. As a result the girls tended to leave her alone and the office manager, Mr Boyne, seemed grateful to have a junior who was so sensible and who didn’t tip in with giggly tales about the previous evening’s high jinks.

  The chimes of Westminster struck the half-hour and Hazel quickened her step. She tried not to think of the letter from her mother which she’d stuffed unopened into the pocket of her dressing gown. Another image came to mind: an egg in a sock. She almost laughed, but then her throat began to tingle and when she breathed in, the air seemed sharp, as if it were stuck with pins. Not now, she thought. Please not now. She dodged into a narrow alley between two buildings and lit a cigarette. The smoke soothed her throat. She remembered the Irishman patting her between the shoulder blades, and fought back the echo of his words. You’ve buried it deep.

  Hazel waited until that evening to read the letter. Jasmin was finally asleep and Lucia had gone to a meeting at HQ, emergency planning after the events of the weekend. Lucia was certainly in demand at head office. She said it was marvellous the way the movement promoted women – the blackshirts were far more modern than the Nazis on that point. Hitler would have all German women dressed in dirndls, their faces scrubbed of make-up,
but Mosley liked his women to be strong and glamorous. Look at Diana Guinness. You couldn’t imagine anyone more glamorous.

  Hazel lit a cigarette at the table in the living room and sliced at the envelope with Lucia’s silver letter opener. The letter was brief, all of three sentences. Francine wanted to meet. Sunday 11th – this Sunday – 3 p.m. on the steps of the Tate Gallery. The Tate, of all places. Had Francine discovered that she worked nearby, or was it simply chance? A coincidence, surely. It was the kind of place Francine would suggest.

  Ash flakes dropped from Hazel’s cigarette onto the letter, obscuring her mother’s signature, the three lavish kisses inked below her name. Outside, the autumn night was drawing in and loneliness yawned in the dark space between the undrawn curtains. Hazel ran her finger along the sharp edge of the letter opener. She had been so grateful for Lucia’s friendship, for her assurances that she would always be there to help. But Lucia was less and less interested in Jasmin – seemed jealous, almost, of the time Hazel had to spend with her daughter, and the nights when she went to bed at nine because she was simply too tired to stay up chatting or listening to the wireless.

  Tears pressed at Hazel’s eyes. She needed someone, something. What was it Mrs Allen had said? Ask your mother, dear. Perhaps it was time to forgive Francine.

  They were back in the summer house and she could feel the weight of him, his breath sighing into her hair. She kissed his neck, tasted the salty sweetness of his skin. A piano was playing, Brahms’s Lullaby floating through the black sky. Was that a gull she could hear, crying into the night? The noise grew more insistent, and Hazel woke suddenly to the sound of Jasmin wailing, her small body thrashing in the basket.

  She sat on the end of the bed, lifted Jasmin and pressed her close, aware of their heartbeats, wild and unsynchronized. She rubbed Jasmin’s back and began to sing under her breath. ‘I had a little nut tree, nothing would it bear. But a silver nutmeg and a golden pear . . .’ She couldn’t remember the end of the rhyme. There were nursery books in Aldwick, on her bedroom shelves. Her mother would know the words. Singing was something she’d been good at: she liked the sound of her own voice.

  Jasmin only cried harder. She must be hungry. Hazel’s breasts ached but any hope of feeding her baby had been long abandoned. The Misses Shaw insisted on bottles – it was more sensible in the long run, they said. Mothers were less emotional once their milk had dried up.

  The night-time bottle was standing on the marble shelf in the larder cupboard. Hazel lay Jasmin on the bed and quickly went into the kitchen. As she closed the larder door she heard a dull thump. There followed a beat of silence, and then a scream. She flew to the bedroom. Jasmin was lying on her face where she had fallen onto the cold floor. Hazel picked her up and tried to soothe her, rubbing her back. There, there. There, there.

  It took forever to calm her, but finally Jasmin took the bottle and Hazel could check her face in the lamplight. There was a small mark on her left cheekbone – a bruise would surely follow – but apart from that she seemed unharmed. As Jasmin guzzled the milk her little fist reached up and grabbed a curl of Hazel’s hair. She twined her fingers into it and pulled hard, so that Hazel’s head sank lower and lower until their cheeks clamped together, hot and tearful.

  At last Jasmin slept but Hazel knew her night had ended; she would be awake now until it was time to get up for work. The dream had stayed with her – it was as if Tom was by her side, his breath trapped in the room. She thought of the last time they had been together, the storm baying outside. The promises they had made.

  Perhaps she had been too quick to lose faith, to believe the other words, those words that came later in the dread quiet after the storm.

  She would never trust a man again, that was the vow she had sworn. And yet the dream, the memory of that moment when she had believed love was possible: here it was, like a silken thread swaying, almost within her grasp.

  On her dressing table was the reply she had written to her mother. She dropped it into the waste-paper basket, picked up a fresh sheet of notepaper and slowly began to write.

  From the steps of St Paul’s she could hear the organ playing: a fugue she didn’t recognize. It was five past three and she resolved to wait ten more minutes. If he hadn’t arrived by quarter past she would go back to the flat and burn the unanswered notes and the scrap of paper with his scrawled-on address, and she would never, ever think of him again.

  The day had felt cool when she left Kensington, but now the sun was struggling through the clouds, warming the streets. She looked towards the statue of Queen Anne, the four carved figures at her feet. There was Britannia, naked to the waist, her small breasts exposed to the weak sunshine. Hazel flushed and bowed her head. To think that he had seen her undressed, pale as stone in the moonlight . . .

  Still, what did it matter? He wasn’t coming anyway. She sat on the granite steps, shielding her eyes from the sun.

  The fugue ended and a stillness fell over the city. At the foot of the steps a huddle of tourists gazed up at the cathedral. They looked at Hazel, too, as if she were part of the tableau. She angled her body away from them, hugging her knees closer to her chest, trying to make herself smaller.

  If Tom came, would he appear from the east or the west? She could see down Ludgate Hill well enough, but there was no sign of anyone who looked like Tom.

  ‘Ah, you meant these steps.’ Suddenly he was next to her, his hands in his pockets. He wore a white shirt, open at the neck, and his skin was tanned from the long summer. ‘I was waiting round the other side.’

  She rose quickly, smoothing the creases in her skirt. ‘I didn’t think you were coming.’

  ‘I don’t like to let people down.’

  The barb hung in the air. They stood awkwardly, looking down the steps rather than at each other, and then they spoke at the same time, and stopped at the same time, and returned to silence for a pained second until Tom asked whether she might like to go for a walk or a cup of tea. She nodded, and they took the steps slowly, Hazel assessing each one, concentrating, because she felt certain the slightest distraction might cause her to trip and tumble, to knock herself out, and eventually she would wake and Tom would no longer be by her side.

  They crossed the road and headed towards the river, past St Benet’s Church and the wharves of Upper Thames Street. White Lion Wharf, Horseshoe Wharf, Puddle Dock. The weather was pleasant for October, they agreed. She asked if his parents were well and he said that they were.

  ‘And yours?’

  ‘Fine.’

  She looked across the water to Bankside, to the jetties and the coal hoists, the dark buildings with their rows of black windows like unblinking eyes.

  ‘You wanted to meet,’ said Tom, slowing almost to a halt as they approached the path under Blackfriars Bridge. ‘Was there any particular reason?’

  She turned her head to him but his eyes remained fixed on the shadowed arch ahead. ‘I wanted to apologize,’ said Hazel.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I’m sorry I didn’t see you again after that night, didn’t write. Everything changed. My . . . circumstances changed,’ she faltered.

  A small child ran under the bridge towards them, stout pink legs and scabbed knees. He was chasing pigeons. His parents followed, a young couple, arm in arm. ‘Slow down, sausage,’ shouted the father. Tom seemed to be watching the little boy with a tenderness in his expression, the trace of a smile on his lips. And at that moment Hazel decided. She would tell him today. Yes, she would tell him everything.

  They passed the couple and the man nodded an ‘Afternoon.’ Beyond the bridge was a refreshments kiosk. Hazel insisted she would buy the tea, and so Tom found an iron bench and sat down as she queued.

  A hazy film of cloud hung low in the sky and there was barely any wind, not even this close to the river. They sat side by side on the bench, clutching their cups of tea, blowing the surface of the liquid, trying to coax away the heat. A jackdaw flew from a plane tree and landed on the low
river wall. The Thames flowed smooth and fast and Hazel felt a rush of emotion towards Tom. Her love was an undercurrent, forever tugging. But she needed more than love; she needed belief, the certainty she’d held dear for that short precious time. She must try to recapture it, for Jasmin’s sake. There would be no better time than this.

  ‘What happened last summer—’ she began.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he interrupted, holding up his hand as if to dismiss her apology. ‘Your circumstances have changed, you said. Mine have changed too. My politics, well – I told you about that already. I’ve swapped sides. And I’m off to Spain soon.’

  ‘Spain? But the war . . .’

  ‘The war, exactly. I’m going to fight Franco.’

  ‘Fighting?’ She gripped the teacup but found no comfort in its warmth. ‘What do your parents think?’

  ‘Oh, I haven’t told them yet. Mum’s still a devoted Mosleyite.’

  A bell began to ring at the fire station next to the bridge, and a volley of shrieks sounded inside her head. How could the conversation have turned to Mosley? To the war in Spain? She breathed deeply, trying to dredge up a reasonable response. ‘Lucia says the communists and fascists actually have a lot in common. We both want what’s best for the working man.’

  Tom tapped a foot on the pavement. ‘Is that right? I think you’ll find Franco has some strange ideas about the working man. He’s a bloody murderer. And meanwhile Britain stands by and refuses to help.’ He put down his cup, scratched the palm of his hand and flinched.

  Hazel looked up at the dull sky and the grey cloud pressing down. How could she possibly tell him now? He was fixed on Spain, that was clear. Dear God, had she actually thought they might be together?

  ‘When do you leave?’

  ‘End of the month, if all goes to plan.’

  She paused, dared herself to look directly into his eyes. ‘Can I write to you while you’re away?’

  He returned her gaze and moved his arm as if to reach for her hand, but then pulled back and picked instead at a frayed thread in the seam of his trousers.