‘And your fiancé didn’t survive?’ The plumber was still gazing at Frank in his uniform, with something approaching awe.
‘No.’ She was embarrassed by the catch in her voice. Even after sixty-nine years, the pain could still take her unawares; sear and stab, as if she’d put weight on a broken leg. ‘Only three men were saved, out of a total of nearly fifteen hundred.’ She had never forgotten the names of those fortunate three: Bill Dundas, Bob Tilburn, Ted Briggs. No Frank Frobisher.
‘God! I’m sorry, love. That’s tough.’
‘And it happened terribly fast. Some of the men on the Prince of Wales – that was the other British battleship – watched the Hood go down, and they said one minute they were sailing alongside a massive iron-and-steel hulk, and the next minute there was nothing left but a gaping hole in the water.’
‘But how could a big boat like that be scuppered so damn quick?’
It pleased her that he found the subject interesting, despite its tragic nature. Company and conversation were both luxuries, and rare. Apart from her once-a-month lunch at the day centre and her forays to the corner shop, she rarely saw another living soul. ‘It was a chance in a million, actually. A German shell struck the main deck and went right through to the magazine and that set off an explosion, which blew the whole thing apart.’ She’d had nightmares for years afterwards, reliving all the details: the pillar of flame shooting upwards like a gigantic blowtorch, followed by the shattering blast, consuming man and ship alike. And she couldn’t stop imagining what Frank must have felt in those catastrophic moments as the stern broke away and the bow pivoted helplessly about, and the cold, cruel water closed above his head. Had he been horribly burned, or grotesquely mutilated – her handsome Frank, with his cheery smile and sunshine-coloured hair and his unshakeable belief that things would always turn out for the best?
‘Of course, it was a huge triumph for the Germans,’ she explained. ‘You see, they took it as proof that God was on their side.’ Temporarily, that had shaken her belief in the concept of a merciful God. How could such a Being favour Germans, or – worse – destroy her blameless Frank and all his valiant fellow-sailors? Yet, three days later, the Bismarck itself was sunk, so she’d been forced to conclude that the Deity must, after all, possess a sense of justice (although she never quite regained her confidence in divine benevolence).
‘So where did all this happen?’ the plumber asked, adding, with a shrug, ‘Geography’s not my strong point, so I haven’t the foggiest notion what ocean we’re talking about – the Atlantic or the Pacific or—?’
‘No, the Denmark Strait.’
He was clearly none the wiser; a baffled look on his face, as he slouched against the door-frame. Should she invite him to pull up a chair and join her for a tête-à-tête? It was such a comfort having someone else in the flat, and would be even more agreeable if they could extend this conversation to matters beyond the War. She longed to discuss in detail the one man in her life she had ever loved, which was impossible at the day centre, where no one ever listened, either lost in their own worlds, or in a creeping fog of dementia.
She opened her mouth to say ‘Won’t you please sit down’, only to think better of it. It sounded frightfully forward, as if she were taking liberties. She should be grateful for the fact they were communicating at all. Indeed, if she answered all his questions, he might be encouraged to ask more.
‘The Denmark Strait,’ she eagerly informed him, relishing this role as teacher, ‘is the stretch of water between Greenland and Iceland that connects the Greenland Sea to the north Atlantic. And it’s exceptionally cold, because it’s fed by a current that carries icebergs in its path.’ Horrific for Frank first to scorch and then to freeze. He had always hated extremes, whether of feelings or of climate. Which is why they’d planned to marry in May, when the weather should be balmy and neither too hot nor too cold. They had made provisional arrangements for the May of the following year, depending on Frank’s leave, of course.
The wedding would hardly have been a lavish affair, what with clothes coupons and rationing and the whole ‘make-do-and-mend’ philosophy. Maybe a borrowed dress, a few flowers from someone’s garden, and a whip-round among the relatives for flour and eggs and sugar, to make a basic cake. But, in her imagination, the day was invariably sumptuous. The benevolent sun always shone from dawn to dusk – although not too fiercely, to spare Frank’s milk-pale skin. And the heady scent of lilacs wafted into the church, and every street for miles around frothed with cherry-blossom; the skittish petals falling in pink-confetti drifts. And, far from being dry and plain, the cake tasted of ambrosia. And her dress was a Parisian creation, guaranteed to turn all heads.
Instead, she had worn mourning-clothes; eaten gall and wormwood.
‘Well, if I stand around jabbering like this, the job won’t never get done! So could you fetch me a bucket, love, to drain the radiator.’
The disappointment stung. She would gladly endure an eternally leaking radiator just to keep him near. Still hungry for his company, she handed over her old tin pail, then limped after him into the bedroom and stood there, watching him work. Work was a blessing, although few people grasped that crucial fact until it was too late. You could spend half your life looking forward to retirement, but, when it came, ‘leisure’ and ‘free time’ turned out to mean endless hours alone.
He was kneeling now, tipping water from the saucepan into the pail. She had put that saucepan under the leak in the early hours this morning, after noticing a damp patch on the carpet. She’d had to wait till eight, though, before she could phone for help. Fortunately, she never threw away the leaflets that popped through her front door and, sorting through them over her morning cup of tea, she had come across a brochure promising the ‘speediest response’ to any plumbing problem. ‘Speediest’ she’d doubted, and had thus been pleasantly surprised when this nice young fellow turned up within the hour.
She deliberately kept silent, though, not wanting to disturb him. In any case, her attention was distracted by his tight blue-denim jeans, which were straining at the seams as he bent towards the radiator. The jeans had extra pockets on the sides, which made odd bulges on the outsides of both legs, where he must have stuffed old rags, or small-sized tools, into the handy little pouches. His slim waist was emphasized by a wide, black, leather belt and, beneath that, was a denim strap, buckled like the belt, but part of the actual jeans. Below the strap were two more pockets, their outlines stitched in brown, and with rows of little studs along the bottom.
Until this moment, she had failed to grasp quite how complicated jeans could be. She would never dream of wearing them herself, nor had she ever studied them on anybody else. Yet, these days, half the population seemed to live and die in them, as if blue denim were a uniform, imposed by government decree. As a young woman in the forties, she’d had enough of uniform to last her a whole lifetime. Hers had been fairly casual, of course, compared with her friends in the Wrens and the WAAFs. Land-girls, like her, wore jodhpurs and green sweaters and unflattering felt hats – when they weren’t in their coarse brown overalls, ploughing, digging, milking, felling trees. The very first time she’d milked a cow, she had written to Frank in amazement – she, a city girl, who had hardly known one end of a cow from another, now learning how to handle bulging udders, whilst avoiding being lashed by swishing tails. What she hadn’t told Frank was how often she was forced to fight off the farmer’s advances. Although married, with three children, he’d continually attempted to lure her into the woods, or press her up against a hedge, to steal a kiss – or worse.
‘Okey-dokey,’ the plumber said, ‘let’s get the new valve on. Not that it’s exactly new,’ he laughed.
His cheery guffaw made her smile. Laughter in this flat was as rare as home-made puddings at the luncheon club, where the same semi-melted, white ice-cream appeared each and every month. And the club itself was hardly a place of mirth. Few people there, including the staff, ever managed more than
a titter. Indeed, it was so long since she herself had laughed, she doubted if she still knew how. What with the increase in her rent and the constant noise from the two boisterous boys above, there wasn’t much to laugh about.
As the plumber reached out to turn on the radiator, she was struck again by his hair. That confident, assertive hair was achingly similar to Frank’s, although a completely different shade. Frank’s hair had been so golden-blond, people often commented that it was wasted on a man. She could still remember the feel of it when he held her close to kiss her: strong and springy and gleamingly alive. She would cup her hands around his neck and stroke lovingly from the top of his head to the bristles on his neck, then gently up and back again. Of course, he was obliged to wear it very short, but even the no-nonsense navy barber couldn’t tame its natural thickness. Her own hair had been baby-fine, even as a girl. She and Frank had differed in so many ways – part of the attraction, she supposed – he solid and thickset; she willowy and frail; he fair; she dark; he from the wilds of Devon; she a Londoner, born and bred.
‘Now I’ll need to bleed the radiator, OK, love?’
The ‘love’-count was increasing all the time. This one was the tenth and she cradled it contentedly while continuing to observe him, then added it, with all the rest, to her store of emergency rations. Once he’d gone, she would remove them from the larder and allow herself to gloat, as she had done in the War, over cartons of dried egg, or an extra tin of corned beef, or the unique treasure of a single peach. Provisions made you safer.
‘I’d better ease this valve, love. Mind you, it hasn’t been used for donkey’s years, so I’m not surprised it’s stiff.’
She watched admiringly as he rocked back on his heels, wishing he could ease her joints and muscles with the same expertise he used on valves. His movements were so lithe, in comparison with hers. Her own body was protesting, as she lowered it, with difficulty, onto the dressing-table stool; sharp pains stabbing through her back and hip. Terrible what time could do, to bodies, corpses, battle-cruisers. Parts of the once-famous Hood must lie barnacled and rusting now beneath the heedless waves. And its courageous crew would have been devoured by fish, long since; reduced to gleaming bones….
She shivered, suddenly, pulling her old cardigan tight across her chest. She could no longer fasten the buttons – her fingers were too stiff. But she still needed all her woollies, despite it being late in May. It was chilly in the flat – colder still outside – one of the most inclement Mays on record, with bad-tempered winds, squally showers and a grudging sun, too sullen to show its face.
The plumber whistled softly as he worked; the sound harmonizing strangely with the hissing of the radiator. In a few minutes, he’d be gone; off to another job, another street; she just another entry on his work-sheet. Then, time would slow to its former snail-like pace; each sluggish minute dragging like an hour. She’d begun going to bed much earlier, in an attempt to shorten the days, but it was impossible to sleep with the two tearaways thumping overhead.
‘All done!’ Springing to his feet, again with enviable agility, he seized the old tin pail. ‘I’ll just empty this down the toilet, if you could show me where it is.’
Her flat was so small, the bathroom was only a step or two away. As she pointed it out, she peered at the dirty water in the pail. Her tears must look like that: brackish, grey and scummy. Sometimes, these days, she cried for no particular reason, whereas in her youth she’d been resolutely brave. Frank disliked excessive emotion, so she’d felt duty-bound to temper her grief and match his own restrained and silent heroism. Besides, bravery was obligatory in wartime, when so many other people had lost beloved husbands, brothers, sons. Indeed, the hundreds of men who’d perished with Frank must all have had grieving relatives. She often thought of those sailors – a struggling mass of helpless, hapless men; choked by smoke, scorched by fire, going down, down, down to the dark, uncaring depths. At the time that it had happened, she’d been part of a large family, with parents and four elder sisters and several uncles and aunts, so she’d felt far less isolated. But, now, nobody was left. Her mother, father, siblings, friends, were all clamped by heavy gravestones; invaded by insolent weeds.
‘OK, that’s it!’ Having returned the empty pail to her, he strode back into the bedroom. ‘I’ll just clear up here, then I’ll be out your way.’
She studied his movements as he replaced his wrench and spanner in his toolbox and stuffed the rags on top; determined to get her fill of him, especially his luxuriant hair. Its sheer bounteousness seemed to symbolize his youth and strength, as if it were a life-force in itself.
‘No – maybe I’ll just wash me hands….’
‘Of course.’ She had already thought to put out a fresh towel and open a new bar of soap. If only he’d stay longer, it would give her pleasure to wait on him. But he had refused the cup of tea she’d suggested when he first arrived, so if she offered him a snack now, he was bound to say no again. Besides, she hadn’t much in the larder to suit a man-sized appetite.
Already he was emerging from the bathroom, so it was clear he had no wish to hang about. He hadn’t even used her pretty, rose-sprigged towel, but was wiping his still-wet hands on the fronts of his old jeans.
‘Do you need an invoice, love?’ he asked. ‘Or, if you can pay in cash, I’ll make it only forty quid and throw in the valve for free.’
She stared up at his face: the kindly eyes, the generous mouth. £40 seemed quite a substantial sum; double her monthly heating-bill and more even than her council tax. ‘I, er, wanted to ask you a favour,’ she faltered, easing herself up from the stool. ‘It may sound a dreadful cheek, but—’
‘If you’re hoping to beat me down on price, there’s not a chance in hell! If you were a business, I’d charge you double that, so forty quid’s dirt-cheap.’
No need to raise your voice, she thought, as she went to fetch her well-worn, shabby purse. She counted out four 10-pound notes and a five, wondering if she ought to add a tip. Were you expected to tip plumbers, or only taxi-drivers, hairdressers and waiters, none of whom featured in her life? She extracted another fiver, just in case. After all, she was still hoping for the favour.
‘Thanks a ton,’ he breezed, picking up his toolbox, having pocketed the cash. ‘’Bye, love. Take care.’
‘No, wait! Don’t go!’ she called, aware that he was almost at the door. Twelve ‘loves’ in total now – a number with significance. Twelve hours in a day; twelve months in a year; twelve disciples; twelve gates of the Heavenly City. And Frank’s birthday was the twelfth day of the twelfth month.
‘There’s … there’s something I need to ask you – a very personal thing. But I’m frightened you’ll object, or …’ The words petered to a halt. Never, in her life, had she been so shamefully brazen. Yet this chance would never come again, she knew.
‘Get on with it, then,’ he urged, releasing his grip on the door-knob and turning back to face her.
Wasn’t that an invitation? ‘Get on with it’ surely meant agreement. Without another word, she moved close to him and stretched her arms up towards his head.
‘What the hell d’you think you’re doing?’ he snapped, dodging back out of reach.
‘Sssh!’ she cautioned, adopting a stern tone herself. This was a sacred moment and no way must it be spoiled. Again, she stood close and, this time, cupped her hands around his neck.
‘Hang on!’ He jerked away. ‘Are you trying to strangle me or something?’
‘Keep still!’ she ordered, knowing she must be in charge, for once. Closing her eyes, she took up the same position; arms clasped around his neck. It felt so wonderfully right, as if they were two halves of just one person; only complete when standing heart to heart. Then, slowly, softly, she began stroking from the top of his sunshine-coloured hair, down to the bristles on his neck. And, all at once, Frank was kissing her – not a black-bordered, goodbye kiss, before his ship departed, but a devoted husband’s kiss.
Already sh
e could hear the organ, thundering out the triumphant wedding-march. She and her adoring spouse were standing side by side in the flower-filled city church, and the heady scent of lilacs was wafting through the open door, and an exultant but temperate sun was streaming through the windows to halo them in light. And cherry-blossom-confetti was blowing in pink, foamy drifts, and her dress was a froth of tulle, and her heart a wild hosanna of delight. And, as his lips met hers, they repeated, heart to heart, the vow they’d just pronounced in front of family and friends: to love each other – for ever.
And, yes, that vow had endured for sixty-nine years, to the day.
HOPE AND ANCHOR
Jodie turned the corner into yet another street of shops – all still doing business, at well past seven o’clock. At home, there weren’t any shops, except bog-standard Patterson’s, which closed dead on half-past five, and had festooned its smeary window with a few strings of mingy tinsel, not these swanky decorations. Weird, how, each year, Christmas lasted longer. They’d been selling crackers in Patterson’s way back in September. By the time she was fifty, it would probably last all year – the Christmas trees and Christmas cards left over from December recycled on 1 January, and the whole pointless process starting up again. Not that she wanted to live to fifty and have wrinkled skin and glasses and false teeth, or dodder around on a Zimmer-frame, boring everyone to death about ‘the old days’.
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