by Susan Sallis
Even then Mr Nightingale left her to whatever she was doing and strode back to the other woman saying briefly, ‘Cover yourself.’ Then he sort of swept the woman up and they staggered away. And then, when the soldiers had disappeared, and we were on our own by the park gates, Meriel tugged again, and one of the buttons on the shoulder of the dress came off and the neck tore.
Meriel started to laugh, and then very suddenly stopped, bent over and was horribly sick. And then she cried.
During this whole series of happenings, which probably took only five or ten minutes, I was useless. Just a bystander. I did manage to hold on to Meriel’s shoulders when she was retching, but that was about it. When she started to cry, I said, ‘Don’t worry. It was the fish and chips and then the whip.’ Then she started to calm down, and rested her head against the railings.
Eventually she nodded. ‘That’s what it was.’ She pushed the torn neckline of that lovely dress into place and met my eyes with a funny grin. ‘I suppose I wanted to show Dad how – how awful his – his woman looked. But he didn’t so much as glance at me, did he?’
‘He didn’t know what to do, Merry.’
‘Oh, he knew what to do all right. Hit that poor Yank and then hurry back to the bushes to finish the job on—’
‘Merry, stop it. You know what he’s like. If your mum can accept it—’
‘Only because she adores him. More than that, she worships him. It’s horrible, absolutely horrible. You’ve got no idea.’
I said nothing because of course she was right. I had no idea.
At last we unlocked our bikes and began to pedal slowly towards the war memorial. Because of double summertime it was still light, and I knew that if we hadn’t gone on the whip we’d be going no-handed, and laughing for no reason except we’d had a marvellous evening. I tried to recapture that careless happiness by suggesting we meet after church the next day and go for a swim in the river. She said briefly, ‘Can’t. Helping Mum with the boys.’
‘What about Monday, then?’
‘Our results might be through by then.’
‘Oh . . .’ for a glorious few hours I had forgotten all about the results.
We cycled on in silence. Then we both saw him at the same time. The spy was coming towards us this time, from the direction of the level crossing. The bike was different – Meriel hissed, ‘He’s stolen a better one this time!’ But he wore the same cap and the setting sun made his glasses flash. I couldn’t see his tie or his shoes.
He stuck out his right hand and began to turn at the war memorial. We had intended cycling straight on and into Derby Road, but we slowed and then began to turn left. The trouble was we were too close. We should have kept going and then turned back – or not turned back, which would have been much better.
He hesitated, wondering which of us had the right of way. Then he went in front of us and his glasses flashed again as he did a double-take. It threw us for a moment. This wasn’t part of the game. If he stopped and confronted us we would have lost.
He didn’t stop; he accelerated frantically, not exactly standing on his pedals like Meriel did, but bending over his knees, driving them like pistons. Then, when we had dropped back considerably, he swerved across the road and disappeared in the maze of small streets that led to Russell Square. By the time we had turned right too he had gone. We pedalled as far as Eastgate and then back towards Southgate. We had always thought we knew the city well but discovered that there were alleys and dead-ends everywhere.
Meriel was the one who gave up.
‘Oh, come on.’ She hoisted her flapping dress up to her shoulder again. ‘Let’s get back to my place. Your parents will be wondering where you are.’
It was true. And surely Mr Nightingale would have gathered up his wife and sons by now and got back home. What was he going to tell Mum and Dad? I could just imagine their horror if he told the truth. Not that he would.
We emerged by the war memorial again and I turned towards Southgate Street because I wanted to show Meriel the commercial college and tell her what Mum had suggested. ‘You might be able to talk your dad into letting you come with me,’ I said, as much as to change the subject as anything. ‘Surely it would be useful if you could type?’
She hesitated, which made me think that the idea appealed to her. I looked sideways and saw that she had not even heard me. The spy was just over the road, dismounting, propping his bike against the kerb, obviously about to go into one of the houses in the terrace next to the pump rooms. And he had seen us.
We stopped. I put one foot to the ground; Meriel had to get off the saddle and stand astride her bike. For another of those strange timeless moments we stared across the road at the spy. And he stared back. Then he walked towards us.
If I’d been alone I would have shot off, then; pedalled like mad to get away from him, the situation, everything. But Meriel held her ground, so I had to do the same. We waited. He stopped a yard away. And then he spat on to the road.
I gave a squeak and gripped my bike fiercely. Meriel . . . I will never forget this . . . Meriel spat, too. And it was as if the little spurt of desperate courage that had brought him across the road just disappeared. He drooped. He stood there and everything went out of him; even his glasses dimmed.
Meriel said almost politely, ‘So you are a spy. A filthy German spy.’
His head came up. ‘Is that what you think? Well, think it, then. I might as well be shot for a spy, as locked in that prison day after day.’ He advanced and we both shrank back, and he laughed bitterly. ‘Ah. The great English heroines, yah? You English. You think you are the best in the world. Defending little Belgium. How many countries had to go before you realized you would be next – hey? Hey?’ He spat again. ‘How would you be – locked up all day – how would you be, I wonder? Hey? Hey?’
Meriel said in a quavery voice, ‘You’re not locked up now, though, are you?’
‘No, I am not. And I will not be again.’ He delivered another of those bitter laughs and it was not pleasant. ‘Go. Go on. Go to the police and tell them about me. Then come back here with them – yes, I will still be here—’ He nodded at the house behind him.
‘Come back with them so you can identify me. Hey? Perhaps the Judas kiss.’ Again he laughed, and I felt like screaming, just as Meriel had screamed at her father. ‘Yes, indeed. Very appropriate. Except that you would not wish to kiss me, hey?’ He looked at us again. I cannot describe that look. Defiance was there, the kind of defiant courage that comes from despair. Then he turned and walked back to his bicycle, climbed the six steps to the front door of the house – number twenty-two, I noted – turned the handle, opened the door and went inside.
And we got on our bikes and pedalled towards Southgate Street where it would have been very easy to turn down towards Bearland and the prison and the police station. We did not do that. We turned right and made for the Cross and the road out of the city towards Meriel’s house.
I said, ‘I feel so sick.’ And Meriel said, ‘So do I.’
I said, ‘It was almost as if he was hitting us.’
‘I know. Do you think he is a spy?’
‘He did not say he was.’
‘But he did say he had escaped from prison.’
‘The way he said he might as well be shot for a spy . . . I don’t think he is.’
‘I think he is. He’s foreign. Sounded German.’ Meriel nodded her head. ‘I think he is.’
‘Let’s talk to my father about it. He’ll know what to do.’
Meriel’s head came round like a shot. ‘Don’t you dare! They’ll take over – all of them – my father especially! It will all be their adventure then, not ours at all! Promise me – Rache, promise me – you won’t say a word about this!’
‘What are you going to do? Listen. Merry. I couldn’t – I just couldn’t point him out – identify him – I couldn’t do it.’
She was silent for some time. We began to pedal up the Pitch and she stood on her pedals and pu
shed her bike from side to side to get the best possible pressure. We got to the top and began to coast down the other side. We were both panting.
She said, ‘OK. I’ll think about it. I’ll see you on Monday, right?’
I didn’t bother to reply, we saw each other every day anyway; but she had gone flying ahead of me and turned into her road with a real swoop.
And there were Dad and Mum waiting outside her house, because the other Nightingales had not yet returned. Meriel fetched the house key from beneath an upturned pail and we all trooped indoors, and then the car drew up outside.
I thought it was over.
Three
ON SUNDAY DAD was home, which meant we didn’t go to church. Not that Dad was agnostic or anything; in fact he was probably a devout Christian if only he’d talk about it. But he didn’t like the liturgy of a church service. He said it made it hocus-pocus for him.
It was a pity really, because I needed the hocus-pocus that Sunday. I needed to unload a lot of guilt, and it was jolly hard work doing so in my bedroom on my own. I couldn’t tell Mum or Dad what had happened because I was pretty certain they would be disappointed in me. To begin with, I could have helped Meriel . . . maybe I should have confronted Mr Nightingale and forced him to talk to her. And the way I had automatically turned my handlebars left to follow him when we saw the spy. And the way I kept thinking of him as a spy! And if I really thought he was a spy, why wasn’t I at the police station? And was that why I didn’t want to tell Mum and Dad – because they might make me go to the police station?
It was all too much. My head ached, and I couldn’t eat what Mum called our summer Sunday lunch, which was hard-boiled eggs on a bed of fresh watercress with tiny little new potatoes encircling everything. And then poached plums. They were stewed really, but Mum said poached plums sounded like the Ritz. Once, just once, Mum had worked at the Ritz. She couldn’t afford to do it more often because she hadn’t been paid, and had had to rely on tips.
Anyway, when I couldn’t manage the Ritz-type lunch Mum knew I was ill, and she put cushions in the deckchair and an umbrella over the top, propped my legs on a kitchen chair, and brought me cold lemonade straight from the marble slab in the pantry. I felt better. And quite close to God. Maybe Dad was right. Maybe hocus-pocus sort of got in the way.
I slept and felt even better after that. I didn’t move. Somewhere in the house Mum was singing softly to herself. ‘We’ll gather lilacs . . .’ Dad emerged from the garage carrying another deckchair. He saw I was awake and set it up next to me.
‘How’s it going?’
‘OK. What’s for tea?’
‘Hard-boiled egg sandwiches with watercress! Serves you right for leaving yours.’ He grinned and added, ‘I picked loads of raspberries. Mum’s making some of her mock cream. Will that do?’
‘Oh yes.’ I grinned back.
He said, ‘Listen. Stop worrying about the exam. It’s only a bit of paper. You’re intelligent. Mum and I know that. Everyone you know knows that.’
‘Oh Dad . . .’ I felt my eyes begin to melt and said quickly, ‘I’m not worried, anyway. I’ve got rich parents!’
‘So you have. I’d overlooked that fact.’
We both snuffled laughs. We weren’t rich, not even relatively rich. The Nightingales and the Smiths were rich. The Nightingales had their business and Mr Smith was a director of Smith’s Aircraft Company where Dad worked – when he wasn’t being a wing commander with a handlebar moustache. They’d had a huge house near the factory and had only moved to the rough road when war broke out so that Hermione could go to Swallow. They paid full fees. I’d got a scholarship to Swallow, and at my interview Miss Hardwicke had shaken Dad’s hand and said, ‘I’m a great admirer of your work, Mr Throstle. Do you think Rachel has a similar feeling for mathematics?’
Dad had grinned hugely and said, ‘As you have already awarded her a place, Miss Hardwicke, I have to be honest and admit that I don’t think so. But she is full of curiosity, and in my opinion that leads to learning.’
Miss Hardwicke was absolutely delighted with that, and shook his hand so hard he said he thought she might be a lady wrestler in the evenings. But he said that when we got outside.
There was a cooee from the side of the house and Hermione’s mother appeared, face first. You’d never guess she was married to money. ‘I knocked but . . . ah, there you are! Forgive me for intruding on your picnic.’
Dad looked up. ‘My wife is in the house, Mrs Smith. Is it about Hermione?’
Mrs Smith pulled the rest of her body into view, and with it came Hermione.
‘She’s here. She wanted a word with Rachel, and so I walked down the road with her. I don’t like her to be out on her own with the American soldiers stationed in the manor.’
Dad stood up. ‘Sit here, Mrs Smith.’ He smiled at Hermione. ‘Are you better today?’
Hermione looked completely confused, which was her usual facial expression. Mrs Smith said quickly, ‘She is much better today, thank you, Mr Throstle. We shall go to Even-song later.’ She sat in Dad’s chair with a thump; he’d got it on the lowest notch possible. She gave a sharp scream.
Mum must have heard her because she came out of the kitchen at a trot, saw everything was all right and forced a bright smile.
‘Why, Mrs Smith! What a pleasure. Will you have some lemonade?’
Mrs Smith sat with her hand on her heart, breathing hard, saying nothing. Mum looked at Hermione who said, ‘Yes, please, Mrs Throstle.’ Mum disappeared.
Hermione made the most of her chance. ‘I – we – wondered whether you would be going into school tomorrow, Rachel. For the results. Mother rang Miss Hardwicke, and she said they would be posted on the noticeboard on Monday, and Mother cannot take me tomorrow, so we wondered whether—’
Mrs Smith regained self-control, and leaned forward to give me a condescending smile. ‘So long as you are not accompanied by Meriel Nightingale, my dear. I trust you completely. But I am sure you would be the first to agree that Meriel is not always a good influence, and she would not hesitate to cycle three abreast, which we all know is very dangerous.’
Mum arrived with the lemonade. We all had a glass except Mrs Smith. Mum said, ‘Now, are you sure you won’t partake—’
‘Certainly not, Mrs Throstle. I refuse to indulge in the black market in any way whatsoever!’
Mum never got offended, but she was taken aback. ‘We haven’t the money for the black market!’ she protested, very realistically. ‘The lemons are from Mr Myercroft’s conservatory next door, and I’ve sweetened them with honey from his bees.’
It was Mrs Smith’s turn to be taken aback. ‘It seems Mr Myercroft is a universal provider!’ She was determined not to apologize.
Dad, as per usual, took the sting out of everything. He gave her his widest grin and said, ‘Actually, old Mr Myercroft is in love with my wife.’
‘George! Really!’ Mum went pink. Hermione laughed. Mrs Smith blinked, then smirked.
‘Well, in that case, Mrs Throstle . . . perhaps half a glass.’
Dad stood up. ‘I’ll get it, darling. Have a chat with Mrs Smith while the girls sort out times.’ He looked at her with such meaning that she, too, blinked. Dad went on, ‘Rachel, let Mum sit there and you take Hermione down to see the raspberries.’
Our garden was very long and the kitchen part was screened from the lawn by high trellis; in any case, the rows of kidney beans gave privacy.
Hermione said wistfully, ‘Was it good at the fair?’
‘Yes.’ I remembered the last part and added, ‘I’m not sure you would have enjoyed it, actually. Meriel was sick. We went on the whip and we’d eaten fish and chips and candy floss and she was sick.’
Hermione shuddered. ‘Just talking about it . . . I had a temperature. Mother said it would be better for me to rest.’
‘Yes. I think she was right.’
Hermione said, ‘Actually, my father rang through. Officers are allowed to ring home from overse
as but they mustn’t say where they are.’
‘Of course not. How marvellous. What a good thing you’re on the telephone.’
‘Yes. I wish you were, too. We could ring each other up and have talks.’
I couldn’t think what we’d talk about, but I nodded.
She picked some under-ripe raspberries and started to eat them. ‘I’m really nervous about tomorrow. What time shall we go?’
‘You could telephone Miss Hardwicke tomorrow morning and check that the results are in. Then we could go whenever you like.’
‘Come up as soon as your parents have gone to work and we’ll telephone together.’ She picked another raspberry. Dad had had all the ripe ones; she had to be desperate.
‘Won’t your mother mind?’
‘No. She’s got a taxi coming at ten for an appointment with the dentist – that’s why she can’t take me to school.’
‘Oh. Right. I’ll come to you about half past ten. We’ll ring Meriel as soon as we know what is happening.’
She looked at me sharply but said nothing. We were under the plum tree by this time and I picked two gorgeous Victorias, handed her one and began on the other. From the lawn Mrs Smith’s voice fluted falsely towards us.
‘Hermione! Darling! Time to get ready for Evensong!’
Hermione wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. She said, ‘All right, then. See you tomorrow.’
‘OK,’ I said.
Mum, Dad and I ate our raspberries and mock cream in the garden, smiling at each other all the time. The best of Maude Smith was that when she left it was like not having toothache any more. And, at last, I’d made a stand for Meriel.
That night something awful happened. The war had not affected us personally until then. We were on a flight-line from the Bristol Channel to the industrial bits of Bristol and Birmingham, and on the night Coventry was hit we had watched the German planes go over, droning their typical uneven engine note, wave upon wave of them; sometimes they were caught in the searchlights when the ack-ack guns behind us opened fire, but they made no effort to weave. Mum had wept on Dad’s shoulder and I had trembled in my pyjamas and dressing gown. It had been so . . . inexorable. For the very first time I had wondered, then, whether we might lose the war. The feeling hadn’t lasted, of course. But . . . it was that inexorableness. After that, optimism had soared in again: if they hadn’t brought us to our knees yet, then maybe they never would. There had been a few sporadic attempts to find the aircraft company. An occasional bomb was dropped. But the camouflage nets were everywhere and the big design and planning offices were underground.