My father defended the bakery. ‘London needs its bread. We’ve all had to work extra hours the past couple of nights to cover the bread needed for Christmas and tomorrow night we’ll be baking the bread for Londoners to eat on Boxing Day. We’re splitting tomorrow’s shift with New Year’s Eve so I can take you up on your invite.’
After a few rousing Christmas carols, the men got down to the serious business of card playing while the ladies fixed some supper and Bill entertained me with comic tales from his book and a load of new ‘I say, I say, I say,’ jokes, like, ‘my dog’s got no nose’ and ‘how did the human cannonball lose his job?’ acquired from his new friend Jon, and which I found far funnier than they really were.
As his parents were getting ready to leave, Bill offered to come over the following Wednesday and help take Peggy out for a walk. Realising my grandmother was in the kitchen, my mother was with his mother collecting her coat from my parents’ bedroom, his father was fussing with coat, scarf and hat just outside the living room and my father was facing away from us at the threshold, Bill stood up and, drawing me up also by my hand, leaned towards me and asked quietly,
‘How about you and me going along to the new Odeon on Wednesday afternoon, there’s The Man in the Iron Mask we could see together,’ and he suddenly seemed a little bashful, looking at me earnestly from his grey-green eyes which had always seemed at odds with his dark brown hair. He had been a podgy child and his father was a blueprint for Bill in thirty years’ time, but I suddenly realised that the hand that held mine was attached to a firm, muscular arm and that he was leaner than the stocky boy I remembered. ‘Jon and I have taken to cycling home at the weekends,’ he said earlier and I exclaimed, disbelieving, ‘What, all the way from Reading?!’ But now I saw the effects of four months of austerity and exercise. And that he was also moving on in the manner of his affection for me.
I thought, You’re not getting soppy on me, and so, extracting my hand, with an en garde! I threw him a couple of pretend sword thrusts, hoping I was restoring the brotherly and sisterly friendship we enjoyed. Bill joined in good-humouredly, his wide lips curling as he feinted and dodged. We were interrupted by ‘William, your coat!’ from Reginald and moved out to the landing.
Putting on his school raincoat, Bill fished around in a pocket, drawing out a small wrapped package, green crayoned holly decorating the brown paper.
‘Happy Christmas, Pat.’
The earnestness was back, and I blushed a little.
‘Thank you. Yours is in the bag with the other presents,’ I said, nodding towards the cloth bag Maud was clutching. As usual, I could have added. Bill changing the annual routine felt vaguely threatening, firm ground giving way to shifting sands. ‘I’ll save this for Christmas Day.’
On returning from seeing the Whitsheres to the front door, and while Mummy and Nan were busy in the kitchen, Daddy said, ‘A good night’s sleep is what we need before our walk tomorrow.’
I looked at him in consternation. ‘Oh, Daddy,’ I said, ‘I’ve just realised. Tomorrow’s Sunday and Christmas Eve rolled into one and I’ve double booked myself. I’m meeting Becky after the early church service.’
‘Becky?’
‘Yes, you must remember her. We were billeted together at Mrs Briggs’ house. She was the tall dark one.’
‘Ah, yes,’ replied my father, although I was sure that remembering my contemporaries was the last thing on his mind. ‘Never mind, I’ve been getting used to my Sunday morning walks on my own now for the last term. Another Sunday won’t matter.’
But I could tell he was disappointed. I put my hand on his forearm reassuringly. ‘Don’t worry, Daddy, I’ll be here Boxing Day morning.’
He brightened and patted my hand. ‘Right-ho my girl, Boxing Day morning it is.’
The next day I was up early to get to an 8am Holy Communion service and a little after that I met Becky outside Brixton Town Hall as I had suggested in my letter. Looking across at the cinema I thought of Bill’s earnestness in asking me to go with him to the coming Wednesday’s performance. I really don’t think I feel that way about him, I thought. How can I tell him without hurting him?
‘Penny for them,’ said Becky.
My instinct was to shrug and say, ‘Oh, nothing,’ but I caught myself. We had become more than just acquaintances through shared adversity in our first digs and Becky subsequently made the effort to seek me out at lunchtimes and at weekends, and she instigated our meeting today. She needs me as a friend, I thought, flattered as well as a little threatened. I decided to risk my vulnerability and started with, ‘An old friend of mine wants me to go to the cinema on Wednesday,’ pausing as Becky looked a little puzzled, continuing, ‘with him,’ and pausing again as a slow conspiratorial smile spread across Becky’s face.
‘Him?’ Raising an eyebrow and cocking her head.
I decided to risk all. ‘He’s a friend I’ve known virtually all my life. He’s like a brother to me, but when he asked me to the cinema it wasn’t like when we used to go to Saturday morning children’s showings, it was, well, it was…’
‘Like he wanted a bit more out of it? A date? And I’m guessing that’s not quite what you want?’
I nodded, relieved at her quick perception and warmed by her empathy.
‘Has his mother set him up to it?’
‘His mother? Oh no, his mother’s far too self-effacing to do that. Why did you think that? Oh,’ I said, comprehension dawning, ‘is there someone in the offing for you?’
Becky nodded, her face falling.
‘And I’m guessing he didn’t ask you to the cinema? Theatre?’
Becky nodded again. ‘Just a matinee so he can see me home afterwards. It’s been set up by our mothers. They think we’re a perfect match.’ She raised her arms and dropped them sharply in despair. ‘I was only sixteen in October, for God’s sake.’ Blinking at the profanity, I put a tentative hand on her arm.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, feeling inadequate but also flattered at her confidence. This is what girl friendship is all about, I thought. Sharing and supporting. A novel experience for me.
Becky’s good humour couldn’t be repressed for long. ‘Then Reuben will have to get himself home afterwards to North London in the blackout. So hopefully that will put him off for life!’
‘North London?’
‘Oh, his mother’s a friend of my aunt who lives in Golders Green. So really it’s been concocted by my aunt, with my mother as a willing accomplice.’ Becky, rubbing cold hands together, grinned. ‘Let’s have a pact. I’m meeting Reuben on Wednesday too, so let’s meet up again, say on Friday and compare notes?’
I laughed. ‘It’s a deal.’
‘Come on,’ said Becky. ‘Don’t think about it anymore now. Let’s see if we can find a stall selling hot drinks instead, I’m quite chilled.’
Usually Brixton Market was deserted on a Sunday morning. Although the stallholders mostly observed the Day of Rest, whether it was in church or in sleeping off the strenuous long hours of the preceding week and the drink of the night before, I really would not have liked to bet. But, today being Christmas Eve, Brixton Market was bustling. We wandered around dodging turkeys strung up in ranks like feathered soldiers on parade and grimaced at glass tanks filled with black writhing eels, condemned prisoners awaiting their executions.
On Christmas Day I attended church with Mummy and Nan while Daddy caught up on sleep. He arose in time for our turkey dinner after which we exchanged presents. I gave my mother a deep blue rayon scarf on which I had embroidered her initials and my father a set of three handkerchiefs on which I had embroidered his, and Nan a patchwork shawl I had knitted from scraps of wool through the autumn evenings away from home.
My mother exclaimed over a pair of expensive gloves from the Whitsheres and similarly lavish presents for my father and grandmother.
‘What did you get from Bill?’
‘Oh, I haven’t got round to opening it, I’ll do that later.’ Distract
ion was called for, and fortunately on hand. ‘It’s nearly three o’clock, don’t you want to hear the King’s speech?’
We settled ourselves into armchairs, and Mummy turned on the wireless and we listened to King George VI’s special speech, a message for his subjects on their first Christmas Day of the war.
‘A New Year is at hand,’ he concluded. ‘We cannot tell what it will bring. If it brings peace, how thankful we shall all be. If it brings us continued struggle, we shall remain undaunted.’
As the end of his speech faded my grandmother said, reverently, ‘God bless him and all our Royal family.’
We whiled away the rest of the afternoon listening to classical music on the wireless, playing cards, cracking nuts and passing the port. Well, the grown ups did the last, but I was allowed a long glass of port and lemonade. Later I played the piano for Christmas carols.
Realising by bedtime I couldn’t put off opening Bill’s present much longer, I retreated to my room and slowly unwrapped the small bundle. A Collins Library of Classics edition of Great Expectations small enough to fit in my handbag emerged. Oh, how thoughtful, he knows I love Dickens. Eagerly I turned the outer cover and stopped, thrill and horror spreading rapidly in equal measure.
To Pat, With all my love, Bill he had written in neat copperplate on the first, unprinted, page. A small upward diagonal line stroked beneath his signature, emphasising the sentiment. I flicked over to the title page and thought of Bill’s love of jokes with double meanings. This present isn’t really about Pip’s great expectations of wealth. Bill has his own great expectations of me. A Christmas gift with a double meaning shrieking loud and clear.
Boxing Day dawned and Daddy and I set off for our walk. Every Sunday morning through my childhood Daddy would take me off while Mummy and Nan prepared the dinner. We would walk miles and if I stumbled my father, who required even the exercise of walking to be shipshape and tidy, would say, without breaking pace, ‘Pick your feet up! Pick your feet up!’
My father varied the walks. Sometimes we headed south and east to Dulwich Park where we would sit for a while watching people enjoying the boats on the boating lake, though never tempted ourselves; or perhaps we would head west to Clapham Common, or north west to Battersea Park and making a slight detour either there or back to walk past the house in St Philip Street where I was born. Or, more often than not, straight north to Vauxhall, turning sharp right as the bridge loomed and following the south bank of the River Thames up to Westminster Bridge while watching all manner of boats sailing up and down and my father stopping us to admire the boats berthed at piers on the way. Sometimes we would cross the river at Westminster to view the boats and small ships berthed at Westminster Pier and along the Embankment. Then Daddy would check his watch, declare our route march to be at an end, and we would hop on a tram and make our way home.
Today Daddy chose the river route. I was not surprised. After all, there was a war on and had he not been invalided out of the Navy in 1919 following his survival of the ’flu that had swept the nations, estimated to have killed over twenty-one million people in the 1920s, perhaps he would still be the sailor he had been sent in 1914 at the age of twelve to Naval Cadet College to become. We wrapped up warmly against the dissipating damp fog of the previous night as the weak, watery sun threatened to break through the cloud layer, and we walked briskly along quiet streets and past closed shop fronts. London had so far escaped the snow currently blanketing the more northerly parts of the country.
Often we walked silently until we reached the river and Daddy would tell me about the vessels bobbing before us and estimate their tonnage. But today we had not long started when he said, ‘I understand young Bill will be taking you to the cinema tomorrow.’
‘Er, yes,’ I replied, wondering what had prompted this.
‘A word of advice.’ Daddy paused as if choosing his words carefully. ‘You’re both growing up and I noticed Bill looking at you in a certain way on Saturday. A young man’s way.’
By now my cheeks were fiery red and I thought, Daddy never talks to me about such matters. Has Mummy set him up to this? Was it that obvious?
He went on, ‘Decide on your response and be true to it. It’s easy for a young man to misread a situation and be led on even if the girl doesn’t mean him to. Watch your behaviour towards him and don’t give him false hope if that’s all it would be.’
‘I won’t, Daddy,’ I tried to reassure him. ‘Bill’s my childhood friend, not my childhood sweetheart. I don’t want complications like that.’
‘Well, my girl, just watch your step,’ Daddy concluded and we continued our walk in silence.
The day brightened as the sun finally emerged, the Houses of Parliament dancing upside down in the glittering water like a fairy tale palace trapped by a witch’s spell. I looked up at the building and thought of the enormous responsibility facing the leaders of the nation and, remembering the King’s Christmas message, wondered how undaunted we would all really be if the threat Hitler posed was ever realised.
The next morning I was awake early, unsettled by the looming unknowns of the day. Bill arrived before lunch and we took Peggy for a walk in Brockwell Park. I was nervous, afraid he would swear undying love or some similar romantic notion but he seemed his usual bantering self. I began to relax, and enjoyed hearing more of his evacuation experiences in Reading with his friend Jon and swapping them for some of my own.
Trusting Bill again in his reversion to a sense of brotherly friendship, he caught me unawares at the cinema when Philippe of Gascony asked Maria Therese, ‘Do you love me?’ and she replied that she had always loved him. Bill’s arm shot out and he enveloped my hand in his paw, squeezing tightly as they kissed on screen. I sat frozen, heart pounding, horror rising, gently attempting to disentangle my hand. As the next few scenes played out on the screen and my hand remained trapped I slowly realised that Bill might be taking my gentle finger wriggling as encouragement. To my enormous relief, after a while Bill released his grip, but instead of returning his hand to his lap he leaned forward, shaking his arm vigorously up and down, rocking the line of seats in which we sat.
‘What on earth are you doing that for?’ I hissed. A few heads were turning in our direction.
‘Pins and needles,’ he hissed back, and, with a flourish worthy of the sword-swiping playing out before us, finally rested his arm by his side. Folding my hands under my arms, I sat waiting for a groping hand to reappear but Bill seemed caught up in the action and only towards the end, searching for my hand, he had to settle for patting my left thigh as Louis of France roared his anger and desolation from behind the mask.
My own anger towards Bill for betraying our friendship mingled with apprehension as we filed out of the cinema.
‘I say, Pat, that was jolly good. I hope you weren’t too frightened at the end.’ I made a gesture of dismissal and turned away towards Effra Road, but he caught my arm and said, ‘Let’s stop for a cuppa in the café in Acre Lane,’ nodding in that direction.
‘Oh, I don’t think so,’ I replied, ‘it’s getting rather late,’ pointing upwards to a sky luminous in contrast to the darkening street. ‘But thank you for having the idea of seeing the film.’ Turning southwards, I added, ‘I’ll see you sometime.’
Bill’s route home lay west along Acre Lane, but he had not been brought up to be a gentleman for nothing. Grabbing my arm, he steered me across the road, saying, ‘I’ll see you safely home as it’s nearly dark. Otherwise I couldn’t face your parents on New Year’s Eve. Let’s go along Brixton Hill for a change.’
A brotherly Bill’s company I would have enjoyed, but crossing behind St Matthew’s church and turning south towards the open land of Rush Common I was feeling a little apprehensive. Trying to lighten the conversation by asking, ‘Have you seen anything of your new friend during the holidays?’, I thought I had succeeded as Bill nodded and promptly regaled me with another evacuation tale, this time of a fishing rod, a stream and an irate landowner, fin
ishing with, ‘Well, how were we to know you have to have a licence to fish?’, but as the junction with Brixton Water Lane drew near Bill said,
‘Here, we can cut off the corner,’ and, steering me along an angled path through the wartime allotments, stopped beside a beech tree. Pulling me into its barely discernible shadow, he said abruptly, ‘Pat, will you be my girl?’
Turning my head away towards the road to avoid eye contact, I was unprepared for his enthusiastic kiss connecting with my left ear simultaneous with his forehead connecting with my temple. A loud bang resonated around my head, my ears ringing with a high-pitched whistle. I staggered a little and he reached out, pulling me back towards him, and, as I turned to remonstrate, planted a wet, slobbery kiss firmly around the outside of my lips.
I stood frozen, revolted by the kiss and horrified by the transformation puberty had wrought in my childhood companion. As Bill drew back for air, I gasped,
‘I don’t want to be anyone’s girl. I really must be getting home now. My parents will be quite worried.’
Forcibly pushing his arms down and fumbling in my bag for my torch, I sped off, with Bill trotting behind me.
‘Pat, please, stop, I don’t mean to upset you, it’s just that we haven’t got long now before we have to go back to school and I thought we might just have a bit more time together, and you’ve always kind of been my girl. I thought we could make it official.’
By now I was almost running, keeping up the pace until I skidded to a halt outside the front door.
‘Bill, I’m flattered,’ I lied, panting, ‘but now is really not the time. I’m busy up to the new term. I’ve already arranged to meet a friend. You’ll see me anyway on New Year’s Eve when we’re coming to your place, but please don’t say anything to anyone, I’m really not ready to be an official girlfriend.’
The Keeping of Secrets Page 5