‘That’s a goner,’ guffawed Bill. ‘Only use for that is water polo.’
‘Ha, ha, very funny,’ I said, and the absurdity of trying to rescue the ball and relief that the bantering between us had resumed struck me and I allowed myself a smile, widening to a grin, and a chortle.
Dropping the ball in a nearby bin, I moved to a bench and sat down, watching Peggy all the while.
‘How’s Reading?’ I asked as Bill plonked himself down beside me.
‘Oh, much the same.’ Bill shrugged. ‘Only one more term to go. Who knows what will happen after that.’ He sighed. ‘I don’t know if I’ll matriculate. Been struggling a bit. No matriculation, no Higher School Cert, no university. And no happy parents. It’s a shame Jon’s set on leaving this summer and getting a job. He’s a good egg and if I get to the sixth form he would’ve been a good mate to have there. He’s very good at physics, chemistry and maths, and has been helping me with some of it.’
Keeping an eye on Peggy’s antics from afar, and using that as an excuse to avoid looking at Bill, I asked, ‘Could your Dad not get you a job in the bank? Doesn’t he want you to follow him into banking?’
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Bill shake his head. ‘He wants me ultimately to become an accountant. He says that’s where the big money is. But he doesn’t understand I’m not interested in looking after other people’s money and I don’t get on with figures, I never have and I can’t see that changing.’
‘If you had the choice, what would you do?’ I asked, curious, because as we spoke I realised that we had never before discussed Bill’s career hopes.
Bill was looking straight ahead in Peggy’s direction too. ‘I want to go through sixth form and university and who knows where that would take me. Maybe into the Civil Service, or even the Foreign Office. I like languages. I wouldn’t mind a foreign posting. If we’re still all here and not overrun by the Hun, that is.’
‘Do your best, Bill, that’s all you can ask of yourself, and leave it at that. If you matriculate, that’s good. If you don’t, well, there’ll be another path for you to follow. You just can’t find out which path it will be until the exam results are known. One step at a time.’
Bill said abruptly, ‘You’re a good sort, Pat. Look, I got your letter and you were right. I’m sorry I complicated things around Christmas time.’ He turned to me. ‘Pax. Just friends, eh?’
Can you really turn the clock back, just like that? I wondered. If I did find myself a young man eventually, how would you feel about it? Would you really just feel pleased for me, like a friend would?
But I was tired of the tension between us, and, deciding to take his peace offering, held out my right hand. ‘Pax, let’s shake on it like gentlemen. And now,’ I added as he reciprocated, shaking my hand vigorously, ‘I think it is time to extricate Peggy and head back.’
‘Aye, aye captain,’ Bill said, following up with a mock salute. He rose and strode off in Peggy’s direction.
Our country’s differences with Germany were not so easily resolved. The world was holding its breath. Everyone wondered when the Phoney War would end.
It ended with a suddenness that May that was shocking. While we girls sweated in a sudden heat wave over our exam preparation, the Nazis commenced their swift and devastating invasion of Norway, Holland, Belgium and France. On 22nd May 1940 the weather broke and the sky wept as if it knew we were only weeks away from the first bombs to rain down on London.
The same day I received a letter from my mother. ‘Dear Pat,’ I read, ‘this letter may come as a bit of a surprise for you – as you will see from the address, we have moved to West Norwood, so when you come home for your half term break next weekend you will need to get the train to West Norwood and come straight here.’
The ground shifting sideways, I looked at the address from which my mother wrote, from Idmiston Road, West Norwood.
What on earth induced them to move to West Norwood? Brixton is so much more convenient for everything, West Norwood is a backwater. And that’s another home to get used to. When will I have the chance to ever settle in one place? I hate thinking, this is it, then off we go again.
I read on,
‘I am sure you will want to know how this has come about.’
You bet.
‘Nanny had a disagreement with our landlady over the rent despite the rent book being in your father’s name, and she was determined to find somewhere similar but cheaper. Of course, you know what a whirlwind your grandmother can be when she sets her mind to something and so in less than a week from your grandmother’s row with Mrs Sterne we have found ourselves moved out yesterday and are now settling into our new home.
‘Unfortunately the rooms are a little smaller, there’s only a kitchenette on the landing, and you might find your room a little cramped,’ the old one was hardly palatial, I thought, ‘but at least the rent is less, so Nanny was quite right as usual. Unfortunately there is a young family on the ground floor and the baby doesn’t seem to have stopped crying since we moved in yesterday and the sound travels up to our bedroom, which is a little worrying as Daddy will so need his sleep during the day. As you may imagine Daddy is not too happy at the move as the journey to Milkwood Road will be a little awkward and longer. Apart from all that it is a pleasant quiet road and not too far from the shops.’ What a disaster.
Becky bounced into the living room.
‘Post already?’ she said. I pointed abstractly to the sideboard on which lay a letter for her. She grabbed it. ‘Maybe my sister-in-law’s baby’s arrived,’ she speculated, opening it excitedly. Her face fell. ‘No, it’s still not arrived. Well, not as of yesterday.’
‘Perhaps someone will telephone Mr Parker and leave a message,’ I ventured, returning to my mother’s letter. Mr Parker, the butcher for whom Mrs Grice worked, had agreed for his telephone number to act as an emergency number for our families should urgent contact prove necessary.
Becky looked up.
‘Pat, what’s the matter, you look upset.’
‘Upset!’ I exploded. ‘Yes, you could say that. My grandmother’s only gone and uprooted us again and now we’re stuck out in the sticks of West Norwood!’
‘Uprooted you again?’
‘We lived in Branksome Road until about a year ago. My grandmother took umbrage at the cooking arrangements as we didn’t have a kitchen, we used a Kitchener in the living room fireplace, and that meant getting food ready in the living room, and washing up in the bathroom. It was a little cramped. So Nanny decided she wanted somewhere with a proper kitchen and a bigger room for herself to entertain guests, and I think that was only because she wanted to entertain old Mr Torston, he lives in a house that backs on to the one we had in Branksome Road, so we moved round the corner to Water Lane, and now she’s gone and moved us again, and to West Norwood. And what have my parents done to stop her? Nothing!’
I gasped for breath at the end of my diatribe, feeling angry and abandoned, a piece of flotsam flung around on the tide of my relatives’ whims.
‘Oh, Pat, I’m sorry, I really don’t know what to say. You had so many different places in Leatherhead when we first arrived and to be moving your own home too must be so unsettling.’
Becky’s sympathy was too much for me and I burst into tears.
‘We have,’ I corrected, ‘had a lovely place in Water Lane and my room, even though it was at the front, was quiet and so easy to study in. And we even had a proper little kitchen there. Now I am going to a strange home for the half term before matric exams where everyone will be at daggers over the move and apparently a baby cries constantly in the flat below.’
Mrs Grice, hearing the commotion, popped her head round the door.
‘All right, dearie?’
To which the answer was patently ‘No,’ but I took a couple of shaky breaths and, wiping my dripping nose with my hanky, assured Mrs Grice that while I had been upset that I would be going to a new home on Friday, all was now well.
‘Don’t you w
orry, in a few days you’ll wonder that you ever lived anywhere else,’ soothed Mrs Grice. ‘I’ll bring in the teapot and you can have a nice cup of tea.’
I turned back to Becky.
‘I’m sorry to be such a misery-guts,’ I apologised. ‘Families in Holland and Belgium are being murdered by the Germans and here I am worrying about a silly house move. Let’s think about nicer things. Perhaps your brother’s baby will come next week while we’re all on half term.’
Becky brightened. ‘Oh, I’m so looking forward to being an auntie.’ She bent her head down back to her letter while Mrs Grice returned with the tea tray and we settled to our breakfast.
I returned to my letter while I chewed, swallowing painfully in my distressed state. ‘West Norwood,’ continued my mother, ‘is, as you know, the start of the 33 tram run, so it will hardly add to my journey to the Beaver Club. I’ll just have to allow a little more time at each end. I can get off in Brixton for shopping on my way home and get another tram and pick up more bits and pieces at the shops by West Norwood station. Well, dear, I’ll sign off now as it is rather late and I want to post this on my way in to work tomorrow. Do write straight back so that I will know that you’ve received this letter safely and know to come to our new home and not back to Brixton on Friday.’
I looked at the date. Mummy wrote on Monday evening. Today was Wednesday. No time now to write before leaving for school. I sighed.
Becky said, her mouthful of toast, ‘A big sigh. It’ll turn out alright, I’m sure.’
I glanced at the clock. ‘We’d better run,’ I said, scooting out of the room and upstairs to grab my bag and my writing things for later. Becky followed in my wake.
The Whitsun Bank Holiday on 13th May having been cancelled by the government, our school deferred its half term break to the last week of May. That Friday Becky and I stood at the bus stop for the late afternoon bus into Leatherhead and the train home, our little cases by our sides and our heavy exercise book-laden satchels slung over our bodies. ‘I’ll come to West Norwood with you,’ Becky said, ‘and I can get a tram into Brixton and go home that way.’
On the train we talked about our plans for the coming week. ‘I’ll concentrate on schoolwork for the first few days,’ I said, ‘then maybe we can meet up?’
‘Let’s make it Thursday,’ suggested Becky.
Emerging from West Norwood station I looked around, recalling our departure from here last September and our journey into the unknown. All those hopes of having a settled second home, a cottage with a picket fence and roses around the door. Ha bloody ha. Five places in Leatherhead already, four hostesses. To crown it all, coming back to a new home in London. One day when I’m a teacher and in charge of my own life I’ll get a little place of my own with my own front door and my own picket fence and my own roses round the door and I’ll stay there for ever.
‘Here’s my tram,’ said Becky, bringing me back to the present. ‘See you next week.’
4
Encounter
I listened to the Doppler-descending wail of the baby retreating along the street and breathed a sigh of relief. Now I really could get to grips with my French translation exercise. The building was quiet and still, my father sleeping off the effects of his Monday night’s work, my grandmother out visiting Mr Torston and my mother at work at the Beaver Club where I was due to call in to see her later. I wanted to catch up with events at the National Gallery and give myself a little jaunt out, a break from the studying. The first three weeks or so back at school from half term were to be taken up with internal tests and revision classes, our final preparation for the matriculation exams due late June and early July. Shall I call in to the Beaver Club on my way to the Nash Gal or on my way back from the Nash Gal? I pondered.
As an early lunch I heated up some of the soup made by my grandmother from the remains of the previous evening’s meal, a casserole of braised steak, carrots and swede, now sieved into a beefy broth. On Saturday we had sausages and on Sunday we ate a half leg of lamb. The mystery of how my mother obtained so much meat on our ration cards was a stone I preferred to leave unturned, but still I worried at possible answers. Other treats appeared, especially two eggs each for Sunday breakfast and a cake made with real eggs for Sunday tea. Our rations books allowed us only one egg each a week. What was going on?
The day was turning brighter, the sun threatening to break through lowered brows of grey-lined clouds. At least the deluge of the previous week was now reduced to intermittent showers, but I shrugged on a rain mac to cover my pale yellow cotton frock and navy blue cardigan just in case. The tram wound its way into Brixton. I turned and looked fondly towards the further end of Brixton Water Lane as the tram jerked a little on its right turn into Effra Road. Past Brixton Town Hall and the cinema across the road, I wonder if Bill’s back for half term and if he knows I’ve moved?, up through Kennington and a gradual westwards turn to cross the Thames over Westminster Bridge. Pride swelled as I saw the familiar sights, Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament on the left and Westminster Abbey beyond. The tram swung suddenly right and we were speeding along the Embankment with the river sparkling like precious stones in the early afternoon sun. Mesmerised by the scene I nearly missed my stop, scrambling out at the last minute.
A brisk walk up Northumberland Avenue brought me to the southern side of Trafalgar Square and I paused to view Nelson’s Column, thinking, he scuppered Napoleon’s invasion plans, who will do that for us against Hitler? I transposed the vision from cinema newsreels of German paratroopers spread out around the Square with German troops goose-stepping across it. And a little shiver of fear ran down my spine.
Shaking off my gloomy thoughts, I now had a decision to make, whether to go across to the National Gallery now or to detour via the Beaver Club to greet my mother.
As if the gods were replying, the sun went behind a cloud that cast the Square in chill shadow. That decides it, I thought, I’ll warm up with a cup of tea at the Beaver Club first.
Passing along the side of the Square, I turned towards the Mall, looking for the junction with Spring Gardens. Facing me there was an imposing four-storey colonnaded mid-nineteenth century building. My mother told me to ask at the main door for directions to find her in one of the canteens. ‘The main canteen’s in the old Council chamber, but sometimes if it’s a bit crowded at lunchtimes we use part of the basement as an overflow.’ I moved towards the imposing main entrance.
As I hesitated outside, the right hand of double doors opened, the handle on the inside held by a man in doorman’s uniform, a waft of music and conversation weaving out of the building, and three men emerged, two in army uniform and an older one in an air force uniform. I overheard one of the army men say to the airman, ‘Group Captain Bonar not coming with us?’ and the other say, ‘No, he wants to fit in some sightseeing,’ their voices fading as they moved along the street. I stepped forward as the doorman moved to close the door, asking hurriedly, ‘Excuse me, is this the Beaver Club?’
Eying me suspiciously, the doorman sniffed, ‘It might be. It’s a private club for Canadian servicemen. What do you want with it?’
‘My mother works here and I said I’d call in to see her.’
‘And your mother would be?’
‘Adela Roberts. She works in the canteen.’
The doorman’s severe expression softened into a smile.
‘Of course, now I can see you’re her daughter. I think she’s in the basement this lunchtime. Come on in. Just had to be sure. Don’t want any old riff-raff in here you know!’ he added jocularly.
The doorman closed the door behind me and beckoned me to follow him. I moved through the imposing entrance lobby, with tall narrow windows either side of the front door and entrances to a couple of side rooms, and on through a large open doorway to a grand hall with an elliptical staircase leading upwards to the first floor from where I could hear the chink and murmur of the main canteen customers and distant music, the staircase itself swarming with
servicemen of every description.
The head of the basement stairs was tucked under the sweep of its grand relation, and on the wall to my right in the alcove created by the staircase, and above a table, hung a set of lettered pigeonholes. Seeing the direction of my glance as we stopped momentarily at the top of the basement stairs, the doorman said, with a quirk of his eyebrow, ‘Our own private mail service for the military gentlemen.’
I said, descending, the doorman watching, ‘I’m only here to meet my mother,’ and towards the bottom of the flight I turned my head back to add, ‘and not the military gentlemen,’ thinking myself a little risqué, but my words were cut short as I cannoned into a body in airman’s uniform that was turning the corner at the foot of the stairs, his head turned towards the room lying beyond the lobby, saying to a man who stood on the threshold, ‘No, I’m fine, thanks, I’ll do little exploring on my own,’ and the force of two objects meeting at speed meant that one of them was bound to come off worse, and, being the lighter object, that was me. I found myself bouncing downwards as my foot slipped, my backside fell heavily onto the stone step, and my head jerked and cracked on the side wall. My bag went flying and I flailed an arm for the handrail, but it was caught in a strong grip and I found myself hauled back up onto my feet, an arm encircling my waist to steady my balance.
To my mortification tears of pain overflowed as I looked up at the idiot who had bowled into me.
‘Hey there, I’m sorry. I guess I wasn’t looking where I was going. So, so sorry, hey, let me help you over here,’ he added, half leading and half carrying me to a nearby chair in the basement entrance lobby. My bottom objected to the pressure on its fresh bruise so I half stood back up, but he pressed me down on to the chair again and called into the room,
‘Hey fellas, lady down, could someone bring us a glass of water?’
My mother suddenly crossed my line of vision that had been hitherto blocked by the idiot.
‘Pat dear, are you alright? What happened? Did you knock your head?’ This last as I was rubbing the side of my head where it had connected with the wall.
The Keeping of Secrets Page 7