by Sandy Taylor
We were sitting on the lawn in front of the Royal Pavilion; this was Monica’s idea. She said that we should broaden our horizons and, apparently, sitting on the lawn in front of the Royal Pavilion was going to broaden them.
‘You’ll get a better class of person walking past.’
‘Yes, but they’re walking past, Monica, they’re not stopping to chat, are they?’
‘Something might catch their eye, like my glorious mane of red hair, for instance, and Bob’s your uncle, we’re whiling away the afternoon with a better class of person.’
‘Better than who though?’
Monica shook her head. ‘Just go with it, Maureen, don’t spoil my master plan.’
‘I didn’t know you had one.’
‘Of course I’ve got one, the same as you have.’
‘I have one?’
‘Isn’t your master plan to marry Jack Forrest and be a doctor’s wife?’
I grinned. ‘Yes.’
‘You should have a back-up plan though, just in case.’
‘Just in case what?’
‘In case it doesn’t turn out quite as you want it to.’
‘I don’t need a back-up plan,’ I said. ‘I shall marry Jack and be a doctor’s wife and we’ll live in a little house with roses round the door and have four beautiful children.’
‘It amazes me how sure you have always been about it.’
‘If I can’t be with Jack, I don’t want to be with anyone.’
‘Well, I’m keeping my options open.’
‘What about Norman of the golf balls?’
‘I like him, he’s fun to be with, but he’s not part of the great master plan.’
‘Which is?’
‘To be rich.’
‘What about love? Where does love come into it?’
‘It doesn’t. I mean, I hope I don’t actually hate him but I can cope without loving him. Anyway, love doesn’t last forever, does it?’
‘Doesn’t it?’
‘Nope, and once it’s gone, what are you left with? A bunch of kids you can’t afford to feed and a drunken husband who can’t even remember your name, let alone a time when he ever loved you.’
I realised then that she was talking about her mum and dad. ‘It doesn’t have to be that way for you, Monica,’ I said gently.
‘I can’t take the chance, I just can’t. I’d leave home if it wasn’t for Mum and Archie.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I wish Mum would stand up to him but she never has.’
‘I suppose she’s scared of him. He scares me and I don’t have to live with him.’
We got up and started walking across the lawn. I slipped my arm through hers. ‘I really hope your master plan works out for you, Monica.’
‘I’m going to make bloody sure it does,’ she said, squeezing my arm.
* * *
I often went to visit Mrs Bentley, who said that fate had thrown us together the day Daddy asked if he could have the dolls’ pram.
We were sitting in her beautiful front room. I felt more comfortable in her lovely posh house these days and I think it was because Mrs Bentley was so ordinary; she might have been rich but I knew that she never looked down on me.
‘You’ve done wonders with the bookshop, Maureen,’ she said. ‘I hardly recognise it these days.’
‘I’ve enjoyed doing it.’
‘And what about my brother-in-law? Does he get in the way much?’
‘He sits out in the yard with Hassan most of the time and when he’s not with Hassan, he’s listening to Mantovani and having a snooze,’ I said, grinning.
‘He dons a suit and tie every day and tells me he’s going to work,’ she said, smiling. ‘I think he feels as if he’s doing something and quite honestly, Maureen, I don’t think I could stand having him here all day.’
‘I used to think he was your husband,’ I said.
‘Good heavens, child, what made you think that?’
‘Well, he lived with you, so I thought he must be your husband.’
‘He decided that I needed looking after when my husband, his brother, died. As it turned out, it was Peter that needed looking after.’
I grinned. ‘I think that Maggie and me look after him as well.’
‘Then he’s a lucky man and a very clever one, by the sound of things. He’s got us all running around after him.’
‘We don’t mind,’ I said. ‘I was terrified of him to start with but I think we’re friends now.’
‘He speaks very highly of you, Maureen.’
‘That’s nice.’
‘Are things alright at home now?’
‘They’re better. Brenda is working as well now, so things are easier for my mum.’
‘I’m glad.’
‘Something’s been puzzling me.’
‘And what’s that?’
‘I’ve never seen Peter read a book, or even look at one. Maggie says the same.’
‘Haven’t you realised?’
‘Realised what?’
‘Peter can’t read, Maureen.’
I was shocked; I couldn’t imagine never being able to read. Even if you are really poor or unhappy or life is getting you down, you can open a book and be transported to wonderful places and meet exciting people; you don’t have to travel anywhere except inside your head. I thought that it was sad that Peter couldn’t read.
‘Doesn’t he mind being surrounded by books every day?’ I asked.
‘The bookshop has been in the family for years,’ said Mrs Bentley. ‘It was started by Peter’s great-grandfather, Herbert Bentley. Peter found school difficult, he was unhappy there, so his father would take him to the bookshop and he would spend his days amongst the books. I think that the shop became a safe place for him and, believe it or not, he loves his books. In a funny sort of way the books became his friends even though he couldn’t read them.’
Listening to Mrs Bentley made me realise that you could have all the money in the world but there are some things you can’t buy, like love and friendship and being able to read a book.
Thirty-Four
There was a cloud hanging over England. Some people were sure that there was going to be a war. Older men said that the First World War was the war to end all wars and that it was never going to happen.
Peter and Hassan spent hours discussing it. I’d never seen Peter look so animated. Victory marches were blasting out of the record player and strategies discussed in great detail. The little yard at the back of the shop became the centre of operations. Peter decided that, between them, they had it all worked out.
One day, Hassan’s wife came into the shop, looking for him.
‘He’s in the yard,’ said Maggie, ‘plotting their next big move.’
‘I wish he would bloody move!’ said Hassan’s wife. ‘I’m sick of lugging these carpets around on my own while he sits and puts the world to rights. He can’t even put his own shop to rights. I’m left with the buying and the selling and the cooking and the cleaning. I’ve had enough, girls, I’ve had enough. Someone should remind him that he is a seller of carpets, not a bloody politician!’
It was the longest speech we had ever heard come out of her mouth. Me and Maggie listened in astonishment.
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ asked Maggie.
‘How can I have a cup of tea?’ she screamed, ‘when I have a shop to run?’
‘I’m sorry for your trouble,’ said Maggie.
‘Being sorry isn’t going to help me lug those bloody carpets, is it?’
‘Perhaps we can help?’ I suggested.
‘It’s Chamberlain out the back that needs to be helping, not you girls.’
‘We don’t mind,’ said Maggie.
Mrs Hassan was going red in the face. We were beginning to worry about her.
‘Would you like to sit down?’ I asked gently.
She ignored me and carried on complaining.
‘He doesn’t even call me by my name,’ sh
e went on. ‘He calls me Mrs Hassan, as if I’m some sort of appendage. Mrs Hassan, where’s my food? Mrs Hassan, where’s my shirt? Mrs Hassan, where’s my paper?’ She stormed towards the back of the shop and started yelling out of the back door. ‘I have a beautiful name, Hassan, it’s Afshid, which means splendour of the sun. I never see the bloody sun, all I see are bloody carpets! I’ve had enough, Hassan, I’ve had enough. I shall go back to my homeland and you can sell the bloody carpets yourself!’
I looked at Maggie and I could see that she was struggling not to giggle; so was I.
I joined Mrs Hassan at the back door and there was her husband and Peter, chatting away as if nothing had happened. Mrs Hassan pushed past me.
‘May he be eaten by a goat!’ she screamed as she stormed out of the shop, slamming the door behind her.
Maggie and I doubled over with laughter.
‘He didn’t even look up,’ she gulped, tears streaming down her face.
‘Maybe he’s used to it,’ I said, wiping my eyes.
‘Blimey, it’s enough to put you off marriage!’ said Maggie.
‘Not me,’ I said, taking some books out of a box and arranging them on the shelves.
‘Tell me, tell me,’ said Maggie.
I started to climb the ladder so that I could reach the upper shelves.
‘I might one day,’ I said, winking at her.
* * *
I worried about the war a lot; I worried about the safety of the people I loved. I suppose that is what ordinary people do, they think about those closest to them and not how a war might affect the rest of the world. I worried about Nelson because if there was a war he would be one of the first to go and I worried about Jack because although he wasn’t in the army, he was young and he would have to fight, and I worried about Brenda, who would be scared and Mum, who’d already lived through one war. Every night I prayed that Chamberlain was right and there would be peace in our time.
Jack and I talked about it. We were sitting on the pebbles on our favourite beach. We’d avoided that beach for a long time because it was close to the lagoon but it held such happy memories of those times with my dad and Brenda that we started going there again. It was November but it was mild. I was happy sitting beside Jack. The sea was so calm and still, hardly making any noise as it rolled gently over the pebbles.
‘On a day like today it’s hard to believe there might be a war,’ I said.
‘Maybe there is no good time to have a war. Maybe war doesn’t care where or when it strikes,’ he said.
‘Do you really think there will be a war, Jack?’ I asked.
‘Hitler has already invaded Austria and he’s just marched into Czechoslovakia. Either Britain stands by and does nothing or we go to war.’
‘Would Nelson have to fight?’
‘I think that if we went to war Nelson would want to fight. He’s not a coward, Maureen.’
‘I’m scared, Jack.’
He put his arm around my shoulder and I leaned into him.
‘I think we’re all a little scared,’ he said.
Hearing Jack say that he was scared worried me even more, because Jack wasn’t scared of anything.
‘What if you really didn’t want to fight? What if you refused to fight?’
‘In the First World War, men who refused to fight were called conchies. They were treated pretty badly; they were called cowards and shirkers. Some of them were imprisoned for their beliefs. I’m sure there were a few cowards amongst them but I think most of them just didn’t believe in killing another human being. One of my dad’s best friends was one of them and my dad said there wasn’t a cowardly bone in his body.’
‘What happened to him?’
‘He was a stretcher bearer on the front line and he was killed in battle but he stuck by his beliefs and he never killed anyone. He refused to carry a gun, even to defend himself. My dad said he was one of the bravest men he knew.’
‘Was Nelson’s dad brave?’
‘I think that he must have been, because I’ve never heard my dad say a bad word against him.’
‘I’m glad about that, because I think Nelson’s kindness must have come from his dad and not his mum.’
‘I think you’re right.’
‘Does your dad know where Nelson’s dad is now?’
Jack shook his head. ‘Well, if he does, he’s never said.’
He stood up and held out his hand. I took it and we walked down to the edge of the sea.
‘This will be our best defence,’ he said, looking out over the grey water.
We stood quietly together, listening to the waves trickling onto the shoreline. It was like that between me and Jack; we were comfortable in each other’s company even in the silent moments.
He squeezed my hand. ‘This could be our last Christmas in peacetime, Maureen.’
‘Then we’ll make the best of it, Jack.’
‘Yes, we will, my love,’ he said.
There might be a war coming but something wonderful had just happened: Jack had called me his love. I didn’t say anything but my heart was bursting with happiness.
Thirty-Five
Monica and I were sitting on a bench opposite the Royal Pavilion, waiting for a better class of person to walk by. Well, Monica was waiting for a better class of person to walk by.
‘So tell me again,’ she said. ‘How exactly did he say it?’
‘He just said it, why?’
‘Because it’s important. Was the emphasis on the word my or the word love?’
I closed my eyes and thought about it. He’d said, ‘Yes, we will, my love.’
‘I don’t think he emphasised either word, he just said it kind of softly,’ I said.
‘Softly is good,’ said Monica. ‘And you’re definitely sure that he said the word “my”?’
‘Definitely.’
‘Because if he’d just said “love”, it wouldn’t have meant as much as “my love”.
‘Wouldn’t it?’
‘No, you can say “love” to anyone. You can say “love” to a shopgirl or a clippie or a girl that works in a factory with you and it doesn’t mean anything, it’s just a friendly thing to say.’
‘Bloody hell, Monica, how complicated can two words get?’
‘You swore,’ said Monica, looking shocked. ‘You haven’t sworn for ages. When you were a kid you used to swear all the time.’
‘I stopped.’
‘Why?’
‘Two reasons. The first was that Daddy said that if I was going to be a doctor’s wife I might have to stop swearing and the second was that Brenda had started to copy me.’
‘Do you miss it?’
I nodded. ‘Yeah, I love the word “bloody”.’
‘Me too,’ said Monica.
‘So do you think it meant something, what Jack said?’
‘I think it’s a start,’ said Monica. ‘But I don’t want you to get your hopes up too much because he might not say it again any time soon. That’s not to say he won’t, but be prepared for a long wait.’
‘I’ve been waiting eight years already.’
‘Which means you could be waiting another eight before he gets round to proposing.’
‘Thanks, Monica, that’s very encouraging.’
‘You’re very welcome.’
Monica and I sat watching the better class of people walking by. I was beginning to think that we were wasting our time. I didn’t much like it there. The Royal Pavilion was too sort of majestic and big and man-made. I preferred the sea and the Downs, the places I’d been with Daddy. Me and Daddy had never come here. We hadn’t needed a better class of person to make us happy.
‘I think I’d like to light a candle,’ I said suddenly.
‘What, now?’
‘Yes. I want to ask our Blessed Virgin Mary for some help with Jack.’
‘I think you might be better off going to the main altar, Maureen, and asking God for a miracle.’
I made a face at her and she
grinned. ‘We might as well go now,’ she said, getting up from the bench. ‘I think I’ve given up on a better class of person stopping to talk.’
‘I gave up weeks ago,’ I said.
I hadn’t been to my old church for ages on account of the fact that I was finding it hard to forgive them for not burying Daddy. It felt lovely to be back though. I loved the stillness of the place. It was chilly inside, the only warmth coming from the rays of watery winter sun filtering through the beautiful stained-glass windows. The familiar smell of the place took me back to my childhood – I was always fascinated by the altar boys in their white robes, swinging the incense back and forth.
Me and Monica walked down the main aisle, genuflected in front of the Blessed Sacrament and headed straight for the little side altar. We knelt down in front of Our Lady’s statue. I looked up at her and she smiled gently down at me; I’d missed her. We put our pennies in the old tin box and lit our candles.
‘What are you going to pray for?’ whispered Monica.
‘I’m going to pray for two doors down’s dead dog cos I haven’t prayed for him for ages and he must be feeling a bit neglected. Do you think he’s still squashed, Monica?’
‘No, once you die you lose your body and all that’s left is your spirit. I shouldn’t think Anne Boleyn is wandering around the place without a head.’
‘I hadn’t thought of that.’
‘I am a very thinking person, Maureen.’
‘I never doubted it for one minute, Monica.’
‘What about Jack?’
‘Once I’ve said a prayer for the dead dog, I’m going to ask Our Lady if she can give Jack a bit of a nudge. What are you going to ask for?’
‘Well, I was going to ask her if she could see her way clear to sending me a chap with loads of money.’
‘I don’t think you can ask for money, Monica.’
‘Can’t you?’
‘I don’t think so. Why don’t you ask if she can send you someone with a good job? I mean, it stands to reason that if he’s got a good job he’s bound to have a bit of money.’
‘Good idea, Maureen.’
I watched my candle flickering away and I felt at peace with the world. I suppose that I was still a Catholic; after all, I’d been baptised a Catholic. I just hoped that the Blessed Virgin Mary could overlook the fact that I hadn’t been to Confession or Holy Communion for ages so I wasn’t in a state of grace. I hoped that she would still listen to my prayers.