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When We Danced at the End of the Pier

Page 24

by Sandy Taylor


  Peter hadn’t been back to the shop since, but Mrs Bentley had come in to help us get the place in order.

  ‘I’m worried about him,’ she said. ‘He’s gone into himself, he won’t talk about what has happened. I think he just can’t face it. Those books were part of a happy time in his life, when he spent his days here in the shop with his father. In a strange way I think he feels that he’s let him down.’

  ‘But it wasn’t his fault,’ I said.

  ‘Peter is a simple man, Maureen. He promised his father that he would take care of the books and in his head he hasn’t fulfilled that promise.’

  ‘Is there anything we can do?’ I asked.

  Mrs Bentley shook her head. ‘I really don’t know.’

  ‘Will you keep the shop open?’ said Maggie.

  ‘We’ll need to get someone in to assess the damage. I’ve been told that the building itself is sound, so it’s safe for you to be here. I can get the place repaired but I’m not sure how easy it will be to repair Peter,’ she said sadly.

  And so Maggie and I continued to go to the shop every day. The roof was repaired and we’d cleaned the place up. Yes, some books were lost but we had so many that it was barely noticeable. In fact, it looked a lot tidier now that the shelves weren’t stacked so full.

  Hassan and the baker next door had some damage to their roofs but it was the bookshop that had got the worst of it. Maggie and I told them about Peter and how sad he was and so, along with the butcher, they said they would try and think of a way to make it better for him.

  We left them to it. Every day there was hammering and banging out in the yard and every so often one of them would come in and rummage through the shelves. Mrs Bentley had given them the keys to the shop so that they could work in the evenings. We had a fair idea what was going on but we were under strict instructions not to look.

  * * *

  On the evening of the grand reveal Mrs Bentley managed to persuade Peter to visit the shop. Me and Maggie were shocked at his appearance: his clothes were hanging off him, his face was thinner; he looked like a broken man.

  Mum and Brenda were there and so were Aunty Marge and Uncle John. Gradually other people started drifting in. That’s when we heard the music. We couldn’t understand where it was coming from.

  Then Hassan came in from the yard. ‘Hello, general,’ he said to Peter.

  Peter just nodded.

  Hassan winked at us and we led Peter outside. We couldn’t believe what we were looking at: where the bench had been was a large shed that took up most of the yard and over the door was a sign that simply said ‘PETER’S PLACE’.

  We all watched as Peter opened the shed door and went inside and then we heard the sobbing. I wanted to go to him but Mrs Bentley said, ‘Leave him, Maureen.’ Eventually he came out, he shook his head and said, ‘Thank you, my friends.’ We all clapped.

  It seemed that everyone had donated something. The man from the junk shop provided another table, someone had wired the place for electricity and Mrs Bentley had brought a new record player and some records. There were books on the table and maps on the wall. It was indeed Peter’s place. Afshid turned up the volume on the record player and we all sang along to Vera Lynn singing ‘The White Cliffs of Dover’.

  ‘Gertie would have loved this,’ said Brenda.

  ‘She would, wouldn’t she?’ I said.

  * * *

  The next morning Peter arrived at the shop in his suit and tie. He smiled at us and went straight out to his shed. Later on, he was joined by Hassan, the baker and the butcher: the war council had resumed operations. The kindness of these people had brought Peter back to life.

  Fifty-One

  On Christmas Eve, Mrs Bentley invited Mum, Brenda, me, Maggie and the war council to her house for a celebration and to thank everyone for Peter’s shed. The house looked lovely, like something you might see in a magazine. The rooms were filled with the scent of fresh flowers that were displayed in beautiful vases placed on shiny glass tables. There was a lovely tree in the hallway, ablaze with lights, which reflected in the gilt mirrors that hung from the walls. Mum had never been there and I could see from the look on her face how overwhelmed she was by it all.

  ‘No fag packets on that tree,’ whispered Mum.

  ‘I rather liked the fag packets,’ whispered Brenda, grinning.

  The food was delicious and we ate it in the cream and pale blue dining room. Crystal glasses gleamed on the long table and crisp white napkins were folded beside our plates. Peter stood up and thanked me and Maggie for taking care of the shop and he thanked Hassan, the butcher and the baker for building his shed.

  ‘To friends,’ he said, lifting his glass.

  ‘To friends,’ we echoed.

  Then Mrs Bentley stood up. ‘To peace,’ she said.

  Together we all raised our glasses again. ‘To peace,’ we said in unison.

  After we’d finished eating, Mrs Bentley sat down at the grand piano and played for us. We sang hymns and carols at the tops of our voices. Peter sang ‘Silent Night’ on his own. His voice rang out pure and clear into the hushed room. Then Afshid sang a song from her homeland. By the end of the evening there wasn’t a dry eye in the house.

  At the end of the night we thanked Mrs Bentley and started the long walk home. The sky was inky-black, twinkling with a thousand stars, and as we walked along the prom we could hear the soft sound of the sea as it washed over the shore. I loved this town and I loved being here, in this place, on this night, with my family and friends.

  * * *

  Christmas Day was perfect: there were no air raids and we could just relax and have a nice time. Mum and Aunty Marge had put their ration books together and we had a feast. We had chicken and roast potatoes, carrots, cabbage and beans all covered in a rich, tasty chicken gravy. For pudding, Mum came in with an apple pie.

  ‘I’ll have you know that the pastry is made with real butter.’

  ‘How did you manage that?’ said Aunty Marge, amazed.

  ‘I winked at the grocer,’ said Mum, grinning.

  ‘Pity you didn’t do a bit more,’ said Aunty Marge. ‘We might have had a bit of custard to go with it.’

  ‘Cheeky bugger!’ said Mum, laughing.

  It was fun seeing Mum so happy, she deserved to be.

  In the evening Jack came round and we played charades and gin rummy.

  We all wished that Nelson had been there to share this day with us. We wrote regularly but, so far, we hadn’t heard back from him. We could only hope and pray no news was good news; Jack and I worried about him constantly. Jack gave me a silver compact and I gave his some cufflinks with the letter ‘J’ engraved on them. He had said no more about joining up and part of me was hoping he had decided not to.

  * * *

  We saw in 1941 with Monica and Chester. He was lovely, a gentle giant of a man, who very obviously adored Monica. I was so happy for my friend who had found her better class of person. He talked about his family and his home in Santa Monica with such love and pride. He and Jack spoke of the war. Chester didn’t judge him for not fighting, instead he asked him about his studies and his dream of one day becoming a doctor. The two of them got on great.

  The four of us walked along the seafront to Shoreham Harbour and sat huddled up on the grassy bank, looking out over the canal. The big ships were black silhouettes on the far side of the canal and at twelve o’clock their horns went off. The sailors gave a loud rendition of ‘Auld Lang Syne’ and they shouted ‘Happy New Year’ across the dark water. Monica whispered in my ear, ‘There’s no thistles on this bank, Maureen.’

  Off in the distance we heard the bells from all the churches in Brighton ringing in the New Year. A year that we hoped would bring peace.

  * * *

  But it was not to be. Bombs were dropping almost every day, air-raid sirens were screaming us awake and we would then spend hours squashed into the damp Anderson shelter.

  Churches were holding funerals almos
t daily and my heart broke when I saw tiny coffins on the backs of carts, being pulled along by weeping families. I wondered if this war would ever end.

  Brenda and I were constantly down at the church lighting candles.

  ‘Do you really think that anyone’s listening to our prayers, Maureen?’ she said one day.

  ‘I’m not sure. Maybe they’re all a bit busy at the moment, what with the war and all.’

  ‘Why can’t God stop the war if he’s all-powerful?’

  ‘Not sure about that one, Bren.’

  ‘I mean, he can bring people back from the dead and he can cure lepers and turn water into wine, so why can’t he stop this bloody war?’

  ‘Well, Aquinas used to say that you can’t blame God for everything because he gave us all a free will.’

  ‘But don’t you think that’s a bit of a cop-out?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘So why do we bother with the candles?’

  ‘Because there’s always the chance that we’re wrong and there is someone up there listening. We’re going to look like right idiots if we find ourselves at the Pearly Gates and it’s swarming with saints and angels being all saintly and angelic and St Peter says we can’t go in because we didn’t have faith.’

  ‘So we’re hedging our bets, right?’

  ‘Spot-on.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  * * *

  Spring came early that year, bursting out of the ground in a glorious display of colour as if it knew that it was needed. It gave us hope in these darkest of times. Jack and I walked on the Downs, trying to ignore the tanks and the soldiers. The Devil’s Dyke was still out of bounds so we walked across the hills towards the cliffs that looked down over the sea.

  Jack lay down with his hands behind his head. I sat beside him hugging my knees and gazing out over the water. It was one of those days that made you feel glad to be alive; you could almost forget there was a war on and even harder to believe that on this beautiful day people were dying in their thousands. The water was so calm, hardly moving at all, and it sparkled like a million diamonds under the bright sun.

  I lay down beside Jack, he put his arm around me and I rested my head against his chest. I didn’t know what the future was going to bring and where it would take us but right now, on this lovely spring day, being held by the boy I loved, I was happy. And then he spoke.

  ‘I’m joining up, Maureen.’

  I didn’t move, I didn’t speak. I just concentrated on the beating of his heart, trying to match the hammering of mine to the steady beat of his.

  He leaned up on one elbow and looked down at me. ‘I have to go, Maureen, I can’t hide behind this student thing any longer. I’ve tried to, but I can’t.’

  ‘I know you have.’ I looked into his beautiful blue eyes. He wanted my approval, he wanted me to say that it was the right thing to do and, after all, it’s what I’d promised him.

  I got up and walked a few steps away from him. The sun had gone behind a cloud. I looked out over the sea. It looked grey without the sun; it needed the sun to turn it blue, it couldn’t sparkle without it. I knew that I would be the same when Jack went away; my blues would turn to greys without him by my side. I took a deep breath and turned to face him. ‘You have to do what’s right for you, Jack,’ I said. ‘And I will be here waiting for you when this is all over.’

  Jack got up and stood beside me. He kissed the back of my neck so softly, so tenderly.

  ‘That’s all I needed to know,’ he said.

  We stood together, looking out over the sea. Each with our own thoughts and hopes and fears for what lay ahead of us.

  Fifty-Two

  Those spring days were short-lived as wind and rain battered the coast. And then there was this awful war: blackouts, stumbling around in the dark, rationing and daily air raids. So when a letter came from Nelson, we couldn’t have been happier.

  I met Jack at the station and we walked down to the cafe on the seafront. We ordered a pot of tea and some sandwiches because Jack said that he was starving. It was too cold to sit outside so we found a table that looked out over the sea. The window was all steamed up, so Jack took a hankie out of his pocket and wiped it so that we could see out. The sea looked angry and grey, bashing and splashing against the sea wall. The barbed wire all along the beach looked horrible. But inside the little cafe it was warm and cosy and, even better, we had a letter from Nelson. I opened it and we started reading.

  Dear Maureen and Jack,

  The first thing I want to say is that I’m OK, so you don’t need to worry. I’ve been injured, not badly, just enough to get me sent back to England for a while. Yes, I’m in good old Blighty with a shrapnel wound to my leg. You may be wondering where my sturdy tank was in all this. Well, I was walking at the time. A bunch of us were sent to check out a town when we were attacked. Some of the others got it worse than me but, thank God, we all made it back to camp alive. They are operating tomorrow to remove the shrapnel and then they are sending me to a convalescent home on the seafront in Hastings! Can you believe it? I’ll be just along the road from you and I will be available for visitors.

  I hope that you are both well.

  Can’t wait to see you, my friends.

  Love,

  * * *

  Nelson x

  Jack and I were grinning from ear to ear.

  ‘I can’t believe it, can you?’ I said.

  Jack shook his head. ‘I don’t suppose we should be this happy to hear that he’s been injured, but it’s not serious and we get to see him.’

  We held hands across the table; we were both grinning. We were going to see our friend.

  We waited until we received the letter from Nelson letting us know that he had arrived in Hastings and that he couldn’t wait to see us.

  * * *

  The following Sunday, we got up early and made our way down to the Brighton bus depot at Pool Valley. I’d never been to Hastings, in fact I’d hardly been out of Brighton, except to see Daddy at Haywards Heath, so I was really excited as the bus made its way along the coast road. As we approached the town we could see that Hastings had had its fair share of the bombing.

  We got off the bus and started walking back along the seafront. I took Nelson’s letter out of my bag. ‘We’re looking for Valerie House,’ I said. ‘Nelson says it overlooks the beach.’

  We passed beautiful houses that had been badly damaged or were completely gone, just a pile of rubble where they once stood. One house had the side of it completely blown away. You could see the wallpaper, an intricate pattern of pink roses and green trailing leaves, and a perfectly intact bed standing against one of the remaining walls.

  ‘I bet when they chose that wallpaper they didn’t think that the whole world would end up looking at it.’

  ‘I bet they didn’t,’ said Jack.

  ‘I expect that when they bought it they were wondering whether it would go with the bedspread.’

  ‘Or the curtains,’ said Jack, laughing.

  ‘Sad really, isn’t it? It’s like ending up in the bottom of a smelly bucket.’

  ‘A smelly bucket?’

  ‘I’ll explain another time,’ I said.

  ‘I wonder why it’s called Valerie House?’ I said, looking at Nelson’s letter.

  ‘It was rumoured that an architect who designed a street or an avenue used to name the roads after his relatives,’ said Jack. ‘Maybe Valerie was his wife.’

  Valerie House was a beautiful building on four floors. It was painted white, stained yellow in parts from the salty wind coming in from the sea. We walked up the front steps and rang the doorbell.

  It was opened by a young chap on crutches and he grinned at us.

  ‘Visiting the poor, heroic wounded, are you?’

  ‘Nelson Perks?’ I said, smiling at him.

  ‘Ah, Nelson! He said he was expecting his friends. He’s in the garden, breathing in the sea air. I’ll take you to him.’

  We followed the man as he
expertly swung along on the crutches with surprising speed. He led us along a hallway to the back of the house and opened a door that led outside.

  ‘You’ll find him out there,’ he said, pointing down the garden.

  Nelson was sitting in a wheelchair. One of his legs was extended out in front of him and he had a red and grey checked blanket draped across his knees. I called his name and his face split into the biggest smile. I ran over to him and put my arms around him. Then I stepped back and took in how pale he was and how thin but it was Nelson and, for now, at least he was safe and he was home.

  ‘Oh, Nelson, it’s so good to see you,’ I said.

  Jack walked up behind me and knelt down by the wheelchair. ‘Sorry about your leg, old chap. Are you in any pain?’

  ‘A bit,’ said Nelson. ‘But I’m alive, so I can put up with a bit of pain.’

  ‘Are they looking after you well?’ I asked.

  ‘We’re all getting spoilt rotten by a bevvy of pretty nurses, how much better can it get?’

  It became clear that Nelson didn’t want to talk about the war, so we told him all the news, even stuff we’d already told him in our letters. Like the cinema being bombed and the bomb that fell on the bookshop that never went off. I told him about how it had affected Peter.

  ‘Poor chap,’ said Nelson. ‘But it sounds as if he was a hero the day the cinema was bombed.’

  ‘Oh he was,’ I said. ‘He really was.’

  ‘It takes some people like that,’ said Nelson. ‘Raw young recruits too thin for their uniforms arrive on base and you don’t think they’ll last a week but they surprise you and end up becoming unlikely heroes.’

  ‘They say there’s a hero in all of us,’ said Jack. ‘I’m yet to find mine.’

  ‘Your day will come, Jack,’ said Nelson. ‘You don’t have to blow a man’s brains out to become a hero. You are going to become the biggest hero of us all, because you will be saving lives, not destroying them.’

 

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