He sat there, sweating. He was never going to track the car to its destination. But one thing was clear: Bunty had defied him, had taken not a blind bit of notice of his orders. If that was the way she wanted it she was in for a shock.
At lunchtime he found himself eating his sandwiches, sitting on his bike, at the corner of the street. He decided to go back into the flat. There might be some clue as to where she had gone.
He parked his bike against the railings and went in. In the hallway he met Mrs Bennet, looking white and frail and puzzled. She looked at him as though she had never seen him before. ‘What time is it?’ she demanded, as though someone had been interfering with the clocks.
‘Half-past two,’ he shouted, as he was bounding up the stairs.
‘She’s gone out,’ she mumbled.
‘I know,’ he said defensively, as though he knew all about Bunty’s movements, which had his full approval. He wasn’t having that raving old bat poking her nose into his affairs.
The flat was strewn with clothes. Obviously Bunty had been trying things on and discarding them as she went. He’d never seen the place so untidy. She must have a good tidy-up before he came home. He sat down and held his head in his hands. He was baffled, impotent in the face of her defiance.
‘For crying out loud,’ he said. He stared at himself in the mirror. He wasn’t no Errol Flynn, that was for sure, but he was all right. Stocky, fit – of course, from all the cycling – but no athlete, light fair hair, a certain jut of the jaw, nice blue eyes and an air of determination: this was a man of conviction, fair-minded, of course, but honest and resolute. Was he good enough for Bunty? Could he expect someone with her outstanding charms to be faithful to such a run-of-the-mill bloke as him? But, whatever the rights and wrongs of the situation, he had to deal with it. He couldn’t let her go on making a fool of him. One day someone would see her when she was out. People in the street must already know about the afternoon jaunts. They must think that he allowed her to go out in some bloke’s posh car, dressed up to the nines. They might think that he was involved, a – what was it? – a pimp?
In the afternoon he was engaged on Operation Linkage. The local chief fire officer was keen on running through the drill until everybody could do it blindfolded. As he explained, the chances were that they would have to do it in the dark anyway. After the sixth run-through it became tedious, and Tim was tired.
What the devil was he going to do about Bunty? Did he really care what she was up to? Her life of silence needed some compensation. If she could only communicate by touch you had to reckon with that. She had always been good with him, any time he wanted, and the full works every time. What if he got her up the spout? That would stop her little gallop. He could make out that he had forgotten to get some skins and get her on the crest of a wave. Although Bunty had always been particular about skins and had devised a little ballet when she put them on him. And he would have to see off that bloody mother of hers. She encouraged Bunty, the scheming old witch, and where did she come into it? Did Bunty give her some money, some clothes? There was no telling what went on between the mother and daughter. They had learnt, over the years, to communicate without language.
That night when he came home the place was spick and span. She’d got haddock for his tea and some sort of jelly stuff to follow. She always contrived to put something appetizing before him. In these days of rationing it was a miracle what she came up with. But how did she get it? Were there butchers at this place that she went to? Fishmongers, perhaps? He knew that her idea was to give him nothing to complain about. If he had nothing to complain about that gave her licence to go about her own business.
‘You went out,’ he said. And Bunty smiled, as she usually did, and gave him an arch look. Was this her response to any item of conversation? He pointed at the door, and she gave him a puzzled look. What was he on about now, for Christ’s sake?
‘I said you weren’t to go.’ He knew that she couldn’t hear him, but she was very good at reading expressions.
She shrugged her shoulders. Whatever it was hadn’t got through to her so she dismissed it as unimportant. He scowled heavily and began to undo his belt. As he was releasing the notches she pushed him over, on to the sofa and then fell on top of him. He pushed her away, and she made a mock pout of disappointment. He felt his temper rising. He felt hot. He got up and lit a fag. If he started on her he didn’t know where it might end.
‘I think you’d better go to your mother’s,’ he said. As he had his back to her she had no idea he had said anything. He turned around. She looked at him with immense compassion and understanding. She held out her arms. He felt helpless, like a small boy trying to grapple with an adult world. He couldn’t control her. Bunty, with her immense disability, was still the stronger. She liked him, he knew that, but not in a passionate, loving way; rather more like an older sister. She understood how he felt, but he couldn’t lock her up. She would not be dominated by him. He began to cry, not out of misery but out of frustration. He couldn’t deal with the situation. Big racking sobs came, and Bunty put her arms around him and held him tight. He would be all right. He would have to settle for it.
Rosa Tcherny felt awkward. She was sitting in Charlie’s sister’s house, having tea and a jaw-breaking home-made cake, talking about nothing in particular. It was clear that the sister, Renee, knew what Rosa had come for, and her accusing eyes never left Rosa’s face. Renee had scratty brown hair, and she kept drawing in her cheeks and then blowing them out again, her expression indicating the thought, Well, what about this, eh? Charlie was awkward as well, sort of hopping from one foot to the other, as if he couldn’t make up his mind whether he ought to go the toilet.
‘You’re in the book trade?’ said Renee, as though it might be a crime, a vice at least.
‘That’s right. Wholesale.’
‘Must be interesting,’ said Renee, as though she couldn’t think of a subject more boring.
‘Yes, it is,’ said Rosa.
Charlie hopped about a bit more. ‘What time you going out, Reen?’
‘Oh, in a bit.’ Renee didn’t want to go out. She was enjoying embarrassing this hoity-toity bitch. They all knew why she was there. It was a goodbye present for Charlie. It was blatant, and Renee wasn’t sure that she approved. This Rosa had airs and graces, working with books and all that, her smart clothes and hair all done up nice. About three guineas’ worth, Renee reckoned, but, underneath, she was just a common tart.
Renee lit a fag. ‘Do you smoke?’
‘No … and I couldn’t at work, of course.’
‘I should think not,’ Renee laughed, ‘with all those books.’
There was another awkward silence. Renee was making no effort to leave, Charlie was beginning to sweat and Rosa was sunk into the depths of misery. This wasn’t how it should be. They should be in a nice hotel with deferential and tactful staff or on a beach or in a wood carpeted with bluebells or primroses, not in this tiny house. Here everybody was on top of one another, the three-piece suite crammed into the parlour so that there was no room to move, the sight of dirty dishes in the kitchen, where the single window offered a glimpse of the outside yard, with its looped washing-line, trusty mangle, a galvanized bath hanging on the wall, the Anderson shelter decked with Union Jack on top like it had just been captured from the fuzzy-wuzzies.
‘Oh well,’ said Renee, suddenly tiring of the sport. ‘I’ll only be next door if you want anything. Can’t go far, can you? Don’t know what might happen. He was over last night. Jerry, I mean. Just incendiaries, but that’s bad enough.’ Renee took her time packing her handbag with all the items she considered necessary for a visit next door, which included a hairnet, a Picturegoer, a packet of Senior Service, a tube of wine gums and a writing pad and envelopes, a pencil and a sharpener.
‘Oh well,’ she said again, ‘don’t do anything I wouldn’t do’, and stopped, smiled a knowing smile and left.
‘I never thought she was going,’ said Rosa.<
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‘She’s all right,’ said Charlie. ‘She knows what it’s all about.’
‘She made that very clear,’ said Rosa. ‘I thought she wanted to stay and watch.’
Charlie looked miserable. It was all going wrong. He had wanted things to be more light-hearted than this. He turned the wireless on, and there was a faint buzz from Grosvenor House. Sydney Lipton, was it? Or Ambrose? ‘Oh! They’re Tough, Mighty Tough in the West’, but the soft crooning voice belied the sentiment. Why didn’t they sing something sentimental? Something appropriate.
Rosa looked at Charlie. He was a poor specimen. No idea how to handle the occasion. God help him when the enemy confronted him. While he was making up his mind what to do he would be dead.
‘Well,’ she said.
Charlie grinned fatuously. ‘Well,’ he said.
Rosa spread herself on the sofa. Charlie stood over her, grinning uncertainly. He was like a man who had been waiting for a long time for a train to arrive, and now that it had steamed into the station wasn’t sure whether he wanted to go anywhere.
‘When are you going?’ Rosa asked.
‘Too soon,’ he said.
‘Well, you’d better hurry up,’ said Rosa, ‘before the siren goes or your sister pops back for a light.’
Charlie interpreted this remark as the green light. He sat down beside her and pressed his face against hers, breathing in her ear. ‘Shall we go upstairs?’ he murmured, in what he thought was a thrilling invitation.
‘No,’ she said. In that cow’s bed? It would be a travesty. ‘No. Just put the light out.’ In the dark she couldn’t see his silly face, which was beginning to dream in advance. Any minute he might go into a trance.
He put the light out, and it was pitch dark. He stumbled his way back to the sofa. He found her face. His lips connected with hers and went to work like the nozzle of a vacuum cleaner, as though making a supreme effort to suck all her teeth out. She pushed him away. She needed to breathe.
To speed things up she took his hands and placed them on her breasts. He gurgled with delight when he found her nipples, even through her jumper, vest and brassière. The night-club band on the wireless had started playing ‘Amapola’, and he jiggled her breasts on and off the beat.
‘Switch it off,’ she said. He climbed up again, got his legs trapped between the sofa and one of the armchairs but leant over and switched the music off. When he returned he seemed more determined, getting his hand up her skirt and grabbing the waistband of her knickers.
‘All right,’ she said, and tried to lift her bum up to make it easy for him, but now Charlie was at full steam. He pulled and there was a sharp whipping sound like a missile being released from a catapult.
‘What was that?’ he said.
‘You snapped my elastic,’ she said calmly.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘It’ll be all right, won’t it?’
‘Except that when I stand up my knickers will fall down.’ He slackened off. ‘It’s all right,’ she said, ‘I’ve got another pair.’
‘Eh?’ Charlie said, puzzled.
‘You’ll have to get your trousers off,’ she said pointedly. ‘And get on with it. For God’s sake.’
‘Oh, er, right,’ Charlie said and started on his flies.
Rosa, who hadn’t been at all keen on the idea in the first place, was now thoroughly exasperated. This novice boy was practically committing an assault. She wanted to call it off, but the lad was aroused to fever pitch, breathing heavily. She couldn’t see his face, but she guessed that it would be flushed and his eyes in a dreamy trance-like state. Eventually he got on top of her.
‘Oh, oh,’ he was saying, ‘Rosa.’
‘Wait a minute. Haven’t you got a thing?’
‘Eh? What?’
‘A thing, you know. To put on.’
He went silent. It was obvious that he had shirked the vital task of purchasing the all-important French letter. ‘It’ll be all right,’ he said weakly.
‘It jolly well won’t,’ said Rosa. ‘I’m sorry. No admittance without a ticket.’
‘Oh Christ,’ Charlie said. ‘I can’t stop now.’
They had just reached this impasse when the front door opened sharply and a blast of cold air entered the room.
‘They’re coming over,’ Renee shouted wildly. She switched the light on and switched it off quickly. ‘Don’t mind me,’ she shouted cheerfully. ‘I didn’t see anything.’
‘The siren hasn’t gone,’ said Charlie, struggling with his buttons.
‘It was on the wireless,’ said Renee. ‘They’re coming over. You’d better get down the Anderson.’
Charlie scrambled to his feet, leaving Rosa exposed from the waist down. She sat up and discarded her knickers, rolling them up into a ball and stuffing them into her coat pocket.
‘Come on,’ said Charlie. ‘We’d better go down.’
‘I’ll go home,’ Rosa said.
‘You can’t,’ Charlie said. ‘Come down the shelter.’
The way Rosa was feeling, it was preferable to get blown up in the street than be secluded with Charlie and his horrible sister in a tin box and a foot of water. ‘No. I’m going.’
Charlie hesitated. ‘There won’t be no buses running.’
‘I’ll go down the Tube.’
‘I’ll come with you.’ He went to the back door and shouted, ‘Reen!’
‘What?’ came from the depths of the Anderson shelter.
‘I’m going out.’
‘You’re what?’ Charlie didn’t bother to reply. Rosa was already at the front door.
It was strange out. It seemed as though they had the whole street to themselves.
‘I’m going for the Tube,’ Rosa said. ‘Be safer there, anyway.’
As they hurried along the air-raid siren started its mournful warning. Suddenly there was a humming sound, coming closer. There was an ARP warden on the corner, fidgeting with his arm band. ‘Put that light out,’ he shouted unnecessarily. There were no lights: no streetlights, no lights from houses, no car headlamps. It seemed that even the moon and stars had been blacked out. The humming sound came nearer, and suddenly there was a whooshing in the air, like a firework rocket setting off near by, and the pavement seemed to skid to the left and then right itself. Then there was a dull thump, which seemed to be quite near but was probably three miles away.
‘Christ,’ said Charlie.
Involuntarily, almost as if they had heard a starting pistol, they began to run. The nearest Underground station was at least half a mile away. At first they ran full pelt, out of panic and fear, and then, breathless, they loped and stumbled like drunks trying to negotiate their way out of a swaying pub, sucking in huge breaths of air and sounding punctured and constricted. They reached the station, but the gates were across.
‘It’s closed,’ Charlie gasped and collapsed, exhausted, on the pavement.
It was not the regular time for closing. The authorities had realized that the whole Underground network was crammed and had decided that it would be dangerous for more people to be allowed in. In fact, a lot of people bought a cheap ticket and stayed there all day and night, taking it in turns to slip out for supplies. They brought sandwiches and thermos flasks, blankets and a change of socks. It had become their home. New communities had sprung up. Plots and places were claimed, saved and spoken for. These people became neighbours. They bought each other birthday cards and planned Christmas parties. They gossiped, laughed and sang, taking up an entirely new existence in the bowels of the earth.
Rosa and Charlie sat against the door of an ironmonger’s shop. On the dusty window a finger had drawn Mr Chad, his long nose peering over a wall, with the message ‘Wot No Sausages?’ They could hear the drone of planes, and saw occasional flashes of ack-ack fire, and then those awful thumps that seemed a long way away but still caused trembles in the masonry of the buildings near by.
Charlie was frightened, and Rosa knew it. She knew she was on her own. If anyone was going
to save the situation it wasn’t going to be him. There was a slight buzz coming towards them, something in the road. There was no light to see, and if it were a vehicle of some sort it wouldn’t be showing lights. Rosa got up and went to the edge of the pavement, stood on the kerb and peered into the gloom. There was something. It was a car. No, even better, it was a taxi. She shouted, screamed. Charlie came over and they both stood shouting like crazy people. Charlie stepped into the road. The car pulled up.
‘You want to watch where you’re going, mate,’ said the driver.
‘Can you take us?’ Rosa said.
‘I’m on my way home,’ said the driver. ‘If you’re going my way I’ll take you, but I’m not going back. A bit too hot for me up town.’
‘Tooting,’ said Rosa.
‘If we can get there. I hear there’s a bloody great hole in Balham High Road.’
They bundled into the taxi, which proceeded slowly and carefully past Clapham Common. Once the taxi mounted the pavement.
‘I can’t see,’ said the driver through gritted teeth. On Balham Hill there was a row of policemen and ARP wardens. The driver stopped and a policeman came over.
‘Can I get through to Morden?’
‘Not this way you can’t. You’ll have to take the back doubles.’
The taxi turned off the main road, and, in a sudden flash from above, Rosa and Charlie could see a bus that seemed to have been shot in the leg, gone down on one knee, its left front wheel in a crater, the rest in a crazy drunken abstract of red steel. A cloud of dust and smoke got into their throats.
The back streets were deserted. There was no sign of human habitation. It was difficult to see where to turn. It was a matter of guesswork and instinct. Once they got to a parallel road the driver was a bit easier.
‘I wish old Hitler was here now,’ he said. ‘I’d tell him a thing or two.’ It was just the morale-building talk that was going on all over London. They stopped several times while the driver got out and tried to find the route. ‘Emmanuel Road,’ he read. ‘Where the hell is that?’
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