Keep the Home Fires Burning

by S Block

  First, it meant she would have live-in company in the form of Pat, to help with daily chores as Joyce recovered from her injuries from the crash.

  Second, it meant she was able to bask in the ‘celebrity’ of Great Paxford’s bestselling author. The fact that Bob had only previously published one novel, and it wasn’t a bestseller by any stretch of the imagination (including his own, though he frequently referred to the two positive reviews it had garnered in the national press, in which Bob had been respectively described as ‘promising’ and ‘very promising’), didn’t bother Joyce in the least. To her, Bob was an artist, someone able to spin entire worlds from his own imagination and transpose them to paper. To be able to sit quietly in the same room as he engaged in the creative process all but made Joyce a midwife to his creative output.

  And third, Joyce relished the prospect of company to take the edge off being by herself. Before the Spitfire crash she had got on with the task of living alone but it had been far from easy. She was no longer young, and now in constant pain down her left side as a consequence of the crash, which had also left her anxious. She found herself stressed by any alien sound, either in or outside the house, as if it heralded a new disaster.

  For their part, the Simms seemed only too grateful to have somewhere to live while alternative arrangements were made. Pat had embraced the idea quicker than Bob, believing the presence of Joyce in their living space might blunt his bullying for a while and grant her some safety from Bob’s spite over Marek, as well as affording her some breathing space to come to terms with Marek’s departure. Bob had eventually been typically grandiose in accepting Joyce’s offer.

  ‘It would be an honour, Mrs Cameron. After all, aren’t the people of London suffering far more extreme privations than mere cohabitation? We must all come together like never before.’

  Bob sometimes had a habit of speaking as if giving a speech. It was a common habit of a lot of people – mainly men, it had to be said – who liked to hear the sound of their own voice above all others. The reality was that Bob would pay less rent to Joyce than his old mortgage payments, so the prospect of moving in with her in the short term had been financially attractive.

  The typewriter stopped and Bob ripped the paper from the roll and scrunched it up in disgust. Joyce opened her eyes at the interrupted creative flow and looked over at him.

  ‘I feel exceedingly privileged to have a front-row seat at the creative coalface, Mr Simms. Not many get to see it.’

  Bob stared miserably at the keyboard, from which he was currently unable to elicit anything worthwhile. He sighed and swallowed a little rising bile.

  ‘With good reason, Mrs Cameron. The “creative coalface” is exceedingly dull. Like a real coalface – a backbreaking place to work, dark and gloomy, affording only occasional glimpses of useful material.’

  ‘Such a fascinating process!’

  ‘For you perhaps. I have to sit here hour after hour, hammering away. It’s bloody soul-destroying much of the time.’

  Bob hoped his use of the word ‘bloody’ would shock Joyce into silence for a few moments, allowing him time to gather his thoughts and try another tack with the article he was trying to write. Joyce merely considered it ‘artistically salty’, and thought nothing more of it.

  That Bob had an unasked-for audience who possessed no understanding of his need for complete silence wasn’t helping him work, to say the least. But this was Joyce’s house and if she wanted to sit in her room while he typed at her table while seated on her chair, he was in no position to say no. He threaded a fresh piece of paper into the typewriter’s roller and prepared to recommence. At that moment Pat entered.

  ‘Supper’s ready.’

  In fact, supper had been ready twenty minutes ago but Pat’s attention had been taken by an article in the paper in which a social research organisation called ‘Mass Observation’ invited members of the public to write down and send in anonymous accounts of their lives, like a kind of diary. When she’d first read the idea Pat had immediately thought no one would want to read a diary written by her. But after some reflection she started to change her mind.

  Why shouldn’t people know the truth? What it’s like to live with Bob? What it’s like to live with Bob under Mrs Cameron’s roof? Having to play happy families. Having to pretend every moment that I’m proud of him and feel privileged to be his wife. How it’s killing me to be part of an excruciating charade with my husband in front of this silly woman, while the man I love is out there somewhere, training to fight. Or fighting. Alive or dead, I have no idea.

  Bob had fought in the Great War and was too old to fight now. Pat thought it distasteful that he had made the evacuation from Dunkirk the subject of his new novel. It was too soon. He had no distance from the event, and therefore no historical perspective on it. All Bob could do was cynically exploit the raw material for a racy thriller for the pulp end of the market.

  To make a killing from killing.

  She didn’t want to think of Bob any more and momentarily closed her eyes and imagined Marek’s hands stroking her hair and face.

  Bob looked up at Pat through his round glasses, his face pinched into its resting scowl.

  ‘I’ll just have a sandwich.’

  ‘But I’ve made supper. You knew I was making it.’

  ‘I need to get on, yes? I’ll have a sandwich.’

  ‘Why do you have to be like this?’ Pat’s voice was low and terse, to avoid Joyce overhearing.

  ‘I think you’ll find I’m not being like anything – except perfectly reasonable. I need fuel to work. The right fuel, according to my need. And what I need at this moment is a sandwich.’

  Pat looked at Bob and imagined picking a sandwich off a plate, stuffing it into his mouth, packing his nostrils with it and squashing it into his eyes until his face turned blue and he started to choke.

  Joyce beckoned her over.

  ‘Help me up, please, Mrs Simms. My left arm is not yet at full strength.’

  Pat crossed to Joyce’s armchair and helped her to her feet. Joyce brought her face close to Pat’s.

  ‘Such a privilege to watch your husband work!’ she whispered loudly.

  ‘The privilege is ours, Mrs Cameron,’ Bob replied. ‘To be allowed to stay here while we sort everything out.’

  ‘It is my absolute pleasure, Mr Simms. You really have no idea.’

  Pat held out her arm for Joyce to take, and helped her towards the door to the kitchen. As she passed Bob she turned to him.

  ‘I’ve been asked to do a shift at the telephone exchange this evening.’

  ‘So?’

  His attention remained focused on the blank page in front of him.

  ‘You don’t mind?’

  ‘Of course he doesn’t – he has his work to do, and me to keep him company.’

  Joyce had no idea of the minefield she was stepping into, nor that her company was the very last thing Bob wanted. Bob turned and looked at the two women.

  ‘Why should I mind? It’s not as if you’re going off to meet a handsome soldier for a sordid, secret assignation. Is it?’

  Pat stared at him, shocked by his audacity in front of Joyce. Joyce also looked at Bob, wide-eyed. Bob smiled, enjoying the panic he knew he was making Pat feel. Joyce laughed nervously.

  ‘Such a vivid imagination, Mr Simms! How ever do you come up with such things?’

  Bob looked at Pat, his smile dropping.

  ‘It’s a knack.’

  Pat stared at him.

  If I could poison you, I would. If I could burn this house down around you, I would. If I could pick up that typewriter and smash it into your head, I would. If . . .

  The word seemed to roll around the inside of Pat’s head like a silver ball on a roulette wheel, looking for a meaningful place to stop.

  If I could do something, I would.

  ‘Enjoy yourself.’

  Bob grinned and turned back to his work.

  Doing this in front of Joyce i
s more fun for you.

  Pat closed her eyes and swayed a little on her feet, allowing the urge to scream her hatred at Bob to rise and subside. She felt Joyce’s small hand grip her arm and give it a little tug.

  ‘Come along, Patricia. Let’s get the great writer a sandwich to feed his wonderful ideas.’

  Joyce gently led Pat from the room and closed the door behind them.

  ‘It’s such a responsibility, isn’t it?’ she said gleefully. ‘Keeping an artist properly fed and watered. Very exciting! Let’s see what we have for him, shall we?’

  Joyce slowly made her way along the passage and into the kitchen. Pat watched the old woman totter along, newly unsteady on her feet. She wanted to scream the truths of her life at Joyce until she was hoarse. Instead, she repeatedly banged the back of her head against the hall wall until it started to hurt.

  ‘Come along, Patricia!’ called Joyce, from the kitchen.

  With Bob to her left and Joyce on her right, Pat felt like a lamb on a cattle grid for whom neither backwards nor forwards movement would bring a positive outcome. Only Marek could come and lift her to safety, but the war had taken him before they could agree on a plan for the future, or say their goodbyes. Bob had seen to that.

  ‘Patricia!’ Joyce’s voice was more insistent.

  Pat would have preferred to have stayed in the hall for ever, neither Bob’s slave nor Joyce’s dogsbody. It wasn’t an option. For the moment she must oscillate between the two.

  Pat sighed, and started to walk towards the kitchen, where she would prepare Bob’s damned sandwich. She consoled herself by thinking of all the ingredients she would like to include, and smiled at the extent and inventiveness of her own imagination.

  Chapter 19

  Frances watched as Noah unhurriedly pushed an unwanted dumpling to the furthest side of his plate.

  ‘There are plenty of people who would be grateful for that,’ she said, trying not to sound harsh.

  He looked up at her sternly.

  ‘Why don’t we send it to them?’

  Frances smiled. In his navy-blue pyjamas and dressing gown Noah seemed like a tiny man.

  She considered it demeaning to enter into this kind of debate with an eight-year-old, and kept her counsel.

  ‘Why don’t you just eat it, and then you can have a piece of jam roly-poly?’

  ‘I don’t want jam roly-poly.’

  ‘Do you know what it is?’

  ‘No. But it sounds stupid.’

  ‘I think it sounds fun.’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘It’s suet sponge—’

  ‘Don’t like that.’

  Frances was sure he didn’t know what she was talking about, and decided to persevere to get to the sweet stuff.

  ‘It has lots of jam in it too.’

  ‘I don’t like jam,’ he said, determined not to allow his dark mood to be bought off so easily.

  ‘That isn’t true, Noah. I’ve seen you eat jam on toast almost every morning for breakfast.’

  In the weeks since she had taken Noah into her home, she had used the same considerable powers of persuasion on Noah to get him to go along with her wishes as she had used at the WI to defeat Joyce in the election for branch Chair. Her method was to establish what she wanted him to do, then explain why it would benefit him, and conclude by explaining how it would ultimately benefit everyone in the long run.

  Noah looked at her with his customary, determined expression. She could see he was thinking, working through his list of responses for his next answer. Noah blinked, deciding to preserve his integrity by bailing out of the debate altogether.

  ‘I don’t care,’ he said.

  Frances was stumped. Her legendary powers of persuasion were dependent on the willingness of those she was trying to persuade to be open to persuasion. In three brief words Noah signalled he was not. He looked down, avoiding all eye contact. Frances could see his small cheeks were rosy with indignation. It was the first time Noah had rejected her in some form, and Frances felt all at sea. She couldn’t force him to eat against his will. All she had was persuasion, and if he proved resistant then she wasn’t sure what else she had in her arsenal to get the child to do as she asked.

  The housemaid, Claire, came in to clear their plates. Claire had been Joyce Cameron’s housemaid until Joyce had discovered Claire had voted for Frances over her for the presidency of the WI. Claire was twenty, and had a more relaxed way with Noah than Frances did. Noah plainly responded to it. Where Frances tried to affect a maternal air, Claire was simply the little boy’s ‘friend’. They played together whenever Claire finished her shift. Claire’s husband, Spencer Wilson, Great Paxford’s postman and part-time fireman, played cricket with Noah on the Bardens’ extensive lawn in the afternoon. Without this young couple around, Frances would have struggled far more with the child. Claire had a deep well of patience to draw upon with Noah that Frances struggled to locate within herself, and an ability to understand what was going on in his head at any given moment. Frances knew Noah had a crush on Claire, and thought he might find it difficult to be defiant in front of her.

  ‘Just eat the dumpling, there’s a good boy. Come on. Don’t cut off your nose to spite your face, Noah. Big day tomorrow. You’ll need all your energy.’

  Frances had gone to great lengths to prepare Noah for his imminent departure to boarding school. It wasn’t – as Peter had intended – to Peter’s alma mater a tremendous distance away, but a school somewhat closer to Great Paxford, just north of Warrington. Frances had given the matter a great deal of thought, and discussed it with Sarah.

  ‘Is that a good idea?’ Sarah had asked. ‘Taking him in only to send him away again?’

  ‘I’m not “sending him away”, Sarah. I’m sending him to boarding school, as his father would have done had he been alive. And not too far at all.’

  ‘It might not seem that way to the child. Away is away to a little boy.’

  Both Sarah and Frances had been sent to boarding school by their mother. Frances had loved it. Sarah had loathed it.

  ‘It might seem to Noah that after a short period you’ve decided you don’t actually like him, and are packing him off as a result.’

  ‘Nonsense!’

  When cornered by anything she disagreed with, Frances often resorted to denying the legitimacy of her opponent’s argument.

  ‘I have gone to great lengths to explain to Noah that he is going to boarding school because that’s what Peter would have wanted. Because it will be in his best interest.’

  Sarah had sighed, trying to muster all her patience.

  ‘Yes, I can see that. Of course. But Noah might not be able to. Being eight.’

  Frances had told Sarah to her face that she was talking rubbish, but later that day sent Claire to reiterate to Noah that he was being sent to boarding school to accede to his father’s wishes, not because Frances didn’t want him in the house. Claire had returned convinced Noah understood.

  Though Frances had taken to playing the role of Noah’s ‘mother’ as well as could have been expected under the circumstances, it was possibly too much to expect it to continue in perpetuity without hitting the buffers from time to time. On occasion, Frances had found it difficult to respond when Noah became confident enough in her company to be good-naturedly defiant, and barked at the child a little like her mother used to bark at her when she’d been displeased.

  ‘Now that is quite enough of that, young man!’ she would say, her voice tightening enough to squeeze out all of its warm tones. Noah would look down, and stand still for a few seconds. He clearly didn’t like to be chastised, and Frances felt a twinge of shame from the act. She knew it amounted to throwing her weight around, but she could think of nothing better that would bring the same desired effect. She genuinely thought sending Noah to a boarding school whose staff were expert in raising children would lift a lot of pressure from both Noah and Frances, allowing their relationship to develop away from daily niggles.
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br />   It was only now, on the eve of his departure, that Frances realised how much she was likely to miss him. Having insinuated himself into her life, the boy had insinuated himself into her house, and finally, undeniably, into her affections. He was clever and funny. He was the best of Peter in character and appearance. To begin with it hadn’t been easy for Frances to be around him at all, as the boy proved a constant reminder of Peter’s grand betrayal. But in a short time, Noah had started to assert himself in his own right. When she woke up each morning Frances found herself looking forward to seeing him. When he kissed her goodnight at the end of each day, she knew she’d miss him a little until the next morning.

  She heard a sniff, looked up and saw a tear running down Claire’s cheek as she collected Noah’s plate and uneaten dumpling.

  ‘Is everything all right, Claire?’ Frances asked, concerned.

  Claire glanced over at Noah and nodded, and hurried out with the plates. She and Spencer had talked of having children of their own one day, and she couldn’t understand the reasoning behind sending a child like Noah away to school. She had wanted to say as much to Frances, but Spencer told her not to in no uncertain terms.

  ‘It’s what posh people do,’ Spencer had told her. ‘It’s just what they do. They think it builds character. Maybe it does, of a certain kind. Maybe that’s how they stay posh. But say nothing to Mrs Barden. However kind she has been to you, never forget she’s your employer. Which means there are lines you can’t cross. Don’t make the mistake of thinking you can.’

  Claire did as Spencer advised, but it was a struggle.

  Frances looked at the little boy across the table and felt a lump rise in her throat. This is for his own good. It’s not good for a boy his age to spend so much time in the company of women, however kind and well-intentioned. He needs the space to be himself with his peers, away from here. He’s a child. He needs to be with other children.

  Noah looked at her.