Family Chorus

by Claire Rayner

  Lexie laughed a little shakily. ‘I know, I know just what you mean. No, I don’t think — not Hackney. I’ll get a house somewhere, for all of us. We can all live together and —’

  Bessie shook her head. ‘It’s kind of you, but no, Lexie. Victoria Park Road — that’s home for me. I don’t fancy living anywhere else. I’ll be fine there. You get your house and come and see me often, hmm? More often than the old days, maybe?’

  ‘We’ll talk about it.’ Lexie smiled at her again, putting all the anxiety and affection she felt for the fragile little bundle in the chair into it. ‘Maybe we’ll find a way we can all live together and all be happy — we’ll talk about it. It’ll be better than the old days.’

  Bessie looked down at her fingers laced on her lap, almost transparent in their whiteness against the rough redness of the blanket.

  ‘Have you seen — talked to anyone else since you got back, Lexie?’ she asked softly. But Lexie heard the question as clearly as though Bessie had shouted it.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘No, I haven’t. I’ve talked to Alex, of course, but that’s all. Only Alex. What news of — of everyone? Dave and Monty and —’

  ‘Dave went away,’ Bessie said, still not looking at her. ‘Went to live in Palestine. Said he’d always wanted to be a real Zionist, so now he lives in Haifa. He writes sometimes — Monty I never see. I — it was never the same after the — you know. And Joe and Benny, well, they moved away too. You know how close Benny always was to Dave, so he went after him and he lives in Haifa now. And as for Joe — he never writes no more. Haven’t heard from him in years. Last I heard he was in California. Of all places, California.’

  ‘He was always like that,’ Lexie said. ‘Always doing something different.’

  The question hung unanswered between them. There was a long pause and then at last Bessie looked Lexie straight in the eyes. Lexie was very aware of her pallor, of the violet smudges in the temples and beneath the eyes that gave her a bruised look.

  ‘Max got married,’ she said after a moment. ‘Six years ago it was. He married one of the Damont family. They’re relations of Alex Lazar’s niece, you know. Nice people. He married one of them.’

  31

  They called it the phoney war, and sometimes Lexie would wonder how she could have been so frightened of what war would mean to England, when she had come rushing back to London at the end of 1938. Now, with Munich a forgotten promise, Chamberlain a ridiculous joke and the actual declaration of war oddly like an anticlimax, they had come to terms with the idea. They worked and ate and slept and worked again, and paid no attention to the piles of sandbags in the parks and the ‘Shelter’ signs at street corners. It was all nonsense, really, a shadowy absurdity happening over the Channel and nothing to do with real life at all.

  At first they had talked of evacuation, she and Bessie and Barbara, seriously considering sending Molly back to New York and safety, but Molly had wept so bitterly at the suggestion and had thrown such tantrums at the mere mention of the possibility of being parted from Barbara (they had been told that the chances of getting a passage on an evacuee ship for her were slender, American citizen though she was) that they had abandoned the idea.

  It had never been a realistic suggestion as far as Lexie was concerned. The thought of letting Molly go away from her again was much too painful; the six months it had taken to sell the apartment on West Fifty-seventh Street and get them over from New York had been misery for her. She had busied herself well enough of course, not only with the show, which did marvellously well, but also with renovating the Victoria Park Road house (for she had agreed in the end that they should all live there, faced with Bessie’s total refusal to consider moving away). For all that, however, the separation had seemed interminable. To let Molly go again, even to protect her from the risk of air raids, was more than she could cope with. And anyway, as no air raids happened and the strange state of limbo persisted, the anxiety faded. If it ever got really bad, they would go and live in the country, Bessie would tell Lexie cheerfully. And Lexie would agree, if still uneasily.

  But as more and more of the mothers and children who had been evacuated out of London to the fields and woods of Suffolk and Norfolk and Devon came drifting back to their familiar old Smoke, as people began to tell themselves that there was no real risk, that it was all a lot of rubbish, that they’d finish Hitler and his stupid Huns before Christmas, she became more and more uneasy. The news from over the Channel was ominous, as Hitler marched into Denmark and Norway, and the British Expeditionary Force dispatched to Norway to deal with the matter failed signally to deal with anything at all, and she began to remember, hazily, the things that had happened in the last war. The Zeppelin raids that had so frightened everyone, those big silver cigars that had come floating in so silently to do so much damage, came back into her mind, and she told herself fearfully that it was obvious it would happen again. The first air raid warning over London, the one that had come on the very first night of the war, may have been a false alarm, sending everyone scuttling unnecessarily for bolt holes in cellars and under stairs, but it wouldn’t always be like that. Sooner or later, and she feared rather sooner than anyone thought, there would be bombs again and fires and terror and the thought would send her hurrying back to Hackney after the show to try once again to persuade Barbara and Molly to leave London.

  But they wouldn’t. They would sit there beside Bessie’s cosy fire, preferring her half of the house to their own, with Bessie on the other side of the grate, and look at her and smile and shake their heads when she talked of finding a place for them in the country. They were happy, happier than she could imagine, They weren’t frightened. They wanted to stay where they were.

  And Lexie had to admit that Molly was happy. She had arrived in England a sulky leggy creature who had changed surprisingly in just six months. Lexie had met the ship at Southampton and was taken aback at how much she’d grown in just half a year. She had walked soberly down the gangplank rather than skipping as she had been used to do, looking very calm and adult. The difference between ten and almost eleven was clearly a significant one, for she looked quite altered. Lexie had been puzzled at first, and then a little saddened, for Barbara whispered to her that Molly had ‘grown up,’ and ‘become a young lady,’ and then had blinked and nodded and grinned and made a mysterious face all at once. It had taken a moment or two for Lexie to comprehend her, but then she had, and had looked at Molly and felt a pang of regret. To reach adolescence so young — it seemed too soon, much too soon.

  Her first weeks in London had been stormy, for apparently she liked nothing she saw. Lexie took her and Barbara from place to place, showing her the sights of London as Europe crept closer and closer to war during those summer months of 1939. But then the war had really started, and that seemed to change Molly most.

  She had watched the children of Hackney being evacuated, seen the floods of belabelled, gasmask-carrying young ones going past in bus after bus on their way to the railway stations, and had clung closer to Barbara and to Bessie, to whom she had clearly taken a great liking, and said urgently, ‘Don’t make me go, will you? I want to stay here in London, in Hackney. I like Hackney.’ Lexie had relaxed at last, grateful to see the child content. She liked her school, one of the few that remained to offer any classes to the child-depleted neighbourhood, and she had found enough other stay-in-London children among whom to make friends (certainly she was often out in the evenings on the occasions when Lexie was able to come to Hackney before going to the theatre), so Lexie stopped worrying, as best she could, and settled for a day-to-day existence. That was all any of them could do.

  Happy Returns closed after a reasonable run, and at once she was put into another show, this time at the Palladium Theatre, and that meant a great deal of extra work, for the show there played twice nightly. It was a gruelling schedule and she was forced to take a one-room flat in the middle of town, since travelling between Hackney and the West End every night becam
e too much of a chore. She needed to be within walking distance of the theatre, and the flat she found, in a tiny block just behind Marble Arch, was ideal.

  Ideal for work, that was, but not so ideal when it came to seeing Molly, for somehow whenever she did manage to get over to Hackney she wasn’t there. Barbara would smile and shrug her shoulders when Lexie asked sharply why she was always out, and murmur about her friends and how much the child enjoyed being with them and how important it was for her to see them, for after all, there were so many children out of London, and Lexie would have to accept it and go back to the West End in time for the early show, swallowing her disappointment as best she could.

  She had become very good at swallowing things that were unpalatable, she discovered. The news of Max’s marriage had shaken her a great deal more than she would have thought possible. She should have realized he wouldn’t sit alone and bear the willow for her for ever, she told herself over and over again during those first weeks in London while Happy Returns grew in rehearsals, and then opened to packed houses and cheerful reviews. Why shouldn’t he marry? I walked away from him all those years ago, kept aloof, what did I expect? That he’d sit and weep and wait till I chose to return?

  That’s exactly what you did think, said her interior voice, sneering again. Arrogant creature that you are, that’s exactly what you did think! Well, he didn’t. Swallow that as best you can, madam. He didn’t.

  I’m glad he didn’t, she would argue back at that other part of herself. I’m glad, because now I don’t have to tell him anything, do I? If he’d waited for me, if he’d still been around ready to try again, then I’d have had to tell him. He’d have had to know Molly, share her — and I share her enough. Bad enough with Barbara. If Molly had Max as well, and loved him too, I couldn’t bear it.

  And so the weeks plaited themselves into months and the first winter of the war slid away in waves of irritation at the blackout and mutterings about the way rationing was biting: first there had been the tea ration, and then butter and other fats, and then they’d announced that there was a shortage of eggs which was something to make everyone moan for a week on end. But for the household in Victoria Park Road, life was very tranquil, in spite of the dark nights and shortages. Bessie had recovered quite well from her long illness, though she needed to go to bed rather earlier than she had once done, and tended to go rather white about the mouth if she didn’t get there early enough. But having Barbara and Molly with her seemed to have lifted her spirits amazingly. Alex Lazar, on one of his flying visits (and he was up to his ears in war work, busy as he was with ENSA, the entertainments service that had been set up by the government to provide shows for service men and women and people on war work, running shows all over the country for army camps and hospitals) commented on that approvingly and told Lexie that she’d ‘saved Bessie’s life and that’s a fact’.

  ‘You brought that child here, and it’s made a new woman of her. Don’t let ’em evacuate her, Lexie, not unless they take Bessie too. And she can’t go because she has to run my shops. So there you are.’ He’d laughed and grinned at Molly and dug into his pocket to find her some chocolate (a rare treat these days with long queues at every sweet shop), then departed to plunge himself back into his war work, whistling as he went. For Alex Lazar war work was the greatest pleasure there was, and he blossomed under his burdens.

  And so did Lexie, curiously, for although she too was doing extra work for ENSA, spending almost as many hours at the Drury Lane Theatre, the headquarters of the division, as she did at the Palladium, she didn’t get as tired as she would have expected. The people who came there, the soldiers on leave, the nurses snatching a night out from their long hours in the wards, the airmen exhausted by the boredom of waiting for something to do in this phoney war, showed their appreciation of all that was done for them so vociferously that they made her feel needed in a way that not even the most enthusiastic Broadway audience had been able to do.

  The only drawback to her life now was the infrequency with which she saw Molly. Sunday was now the only day she could get over to Hackney, although on most evenings she did manage to telephone the child. But that was not really satisfying, for Molly was no longer the chatterbox she’d been when she was small: there was an aloofness about her, an unwillingness to talk, that Lexie found baffling.

  ‘What are you doing this evening?’ she would ask, and Molly’s voice would reply thin and cool down the line. ‘Oh, nothing much. Seeing my friends.’

  ‘Oh. Who?’

  ‘Well, Susan and Lilian — no one you know. I’ve got to go now, Auntie Lexie. I’ll be late.’

  That had made Lexie first angry, then hurt, that ‘Auntie’ label. Up to now Molly had always used just her first name, as she did with Barbie, which had helped blur the confusion of the situation not only for outsiders but for Lexie herself. To be cast now so firmly in this peripheral role — it was not something she was happy about, and as soon as she could she tackled Barbara about it.

  ‘Honestly, Lexie, I don’t know why she calls you that,’ Barbara said wretchedly. ‘It’s her idea, not mine. Bessie told her to call her “Auntie”, so I suppose she just thought — I didn’t make no fuss about it. I mean, it’d only confuse her if I did, wouldn’t it? Unless you want to tell her — I mean, I suppose she ought to know sooner or later.’

  She had looked bleakly at Lexie over the knitting that occupied her so interminably, and made a small shrugging movement. Lexie had stared back at her, knowing there was nothing she could do. Molly was happy, settled. To start trying to change her view of her world now would be cruel — Lexie couldn’t do it. She’d have to know the truth some day, but not now.

  The summer of 1940 limped on its way, June rolling into sluggish July and then, in August, the phoney war abruptly lost its phoniness. Air raids that were aimed at the RAF started in the second week of August. For ten days people went around London as strung up as violins, certain that at any moment the raids would spread from the south coast airfields and installations to the City, but it seemed the Luftwaffe had instructions to keep away, and some Londoners began to think they never would come.

  Until late one Saturday evening, after the show had finished and the pubs were turning out. Lexie had hurried out of her costume as fast as she could, eager to get over to Hackney. This week, she had promised herself, as she wiped make-up from her face, this week I’ll really try to talk more to Molly, try to get her to relax, talk more to me. Maybe even tell her the truth — though if I do I’ll have to tell Bessie as well, of course. Oh, hell, if only we hadn’t let the stupid thing start in the first place — she’s mine, mine, not Barbara’s.

  Outside the Palladium on the dark pavement there was the usual crush looking for the few available taxis, exacerbated tonight because it was Saturday. Even those who felt safer staying at home all week ventured out on this traditional night. She stood there for a moment peering around in the dimness and then decided it would have to be a bus. They weren’t as quick or as comfortable but at least they ran, and they got there, so she swung out into Oxford Street, pushing her way surefootedly though the crowds. The long months of the blackout had trained her to see in the dark and had given her confidence, but when she got to the bus stop that confidence crumbled, for there was a hubbub there that took her unaware. There were policemen about, all of them besieged by shouting, questioning people. After one startled look round Lexie made a beeline for one of them and pushed her way to the front.

  ‘I don’t know no more’n what I told you,’ he was shouting, lifting his hands in the air to hold off his importunate questioners. ‘I told yer — no buses running east at present on account of enemy action over at Stepney and Bethnal Green. Soon’s we know more, we’ll tell you. Bus inspector’s on the blower now.’

  She felt sick as she stood in the middle of the eddying crowd and stared up at the policeman’s pale face in the darkness. Enemy action at Stepney and Bethnal Green? Victoria Park Road lay neatly tucked behind th
e two areas: a ten-minute walk down Mare Street to Cambridge Heath Road and that was Bethnal Green, and Stepney wasn’t much further. Lexie caught her breath sharply and pushed her way back to the kerbside. If she had to walk all the way she’d get there; find Molly, get her out, make her leave London for the country. It was too risky to keep her here, she’d have to go.

  There was a nightmare she often had: she would be struggling to get somewhere, desperately needing to catch a train or a bus, to find a taxi or someone to give her a lift, and in her dream she would run and shout and wave her hands frantically as the vehicles she needed passed her heedlessly. Her steps would be sluggish and heavy, as though she was trying to drag her feet out of the clay; and now the nightmare came alive. She ran along Oxford Street towards Tottenham Court Road, swearing aloud at the people who stumbled in her way, knowing only that she had to get to Molly, and as people swore back at her and shouted after her in the darkness the tears started. She who hardly ever cried found tears blurring her eyes, and suddenly she remembered herself crying once before; saw a picture of herself sitting on the side of her bed in the flat towards which she was now running so frantically, with Max holding her and kissing her and saying, ‘Lexie, we’ll get married as soon as all the fuss is over.’ That was the last time she could remember really crying, and that had been the start of Molly. That had been the moment when Molly first became a possibility, and now here she was crying again, this time not for Max but for his child. The thoughts and tears jumbled together in her head and mixed themselves up with her gasping breath until she didn’t know where she was or what she was doing, only that she had to run, to get to Molly, to scoop her up and get her out of London.

  32

  She managed to get a lift from a passing lorry at the top of Holborn. The driver good-naturedly went out of his way to take her to Hackney when he saw how distressed she was. It gave her time to recover her control as she sat there in the swaying rattling cab as he pushed his way through the City, going cast. He shouted encouragement all the way, assuring her that those bleedin’ ’Uns’d never do no real ’arm, not to London, they wouldn’t bleedin’ dare, she’d see, it’d all be as right as ninepence, no need to get ’erself into such a two’n’eight, she’d see.