Will all my love now and eternally
James
Weeping, I read and re-read his letter several times, mouthing the words, learning them verbatim. I retrieved my package of letters from James from their hiding place behind the wardrobe, re-reading them too and trying to imprint them in my mind as much as I could. An hour passed and still I sat re-reading them, reluctant to move from the moment, yet knowing I had to act while I had the chance. Opening out my own letters, gathering all the letters together, including Douglas’s bitter and angry diatribe, I hid them beneath my cardigan and crept downstairs. The fire in the living room grate had been laid by my mother before she left for the Beaver Club and I lit it, flinching as the flames burned bright, my vision of James’s last moments vivid. Keeping one ear open for any hint of movement from my parents’ bedroom I burned the letters one by one. Douglas’ first. Then mine. Then kissing each one of James’ before placing them reluctantly, sacrificially, on the pyre.
On Christmas Eve morning as I lay on my attic bed ostensibly reading, inwardly grieving, a muffled knock on the distant front door preceded Bill’s deep tones ascending the stairs far below and I shot up, scrambling out of my dressing gown, grabbing clothes and throwing skirt and buttoned cardigan over my nightie, aware of my breasts hanging loose underneath.
‘Anyone here?’ called our immediate downstairs neighbour, Mrs Weston. ‘A visitor for you.’
I descended quickly, wary of Bill’s solitary appearance, our few meetings since Easter brief and shielded by the bustle of pre-arranged get-togethers.
‘Thank you,’ I said to the short, spreading, grey-haired Mrs Weston, panting from climbing the extra stairs. ‘I’m sorry, my mother’s out and my father’s sleeping after his night work and didn’t hear the knock.’
‘All right, ducks,’ she said, heaving herself back down out of view.
‘Happy Christmas, Pat,’ Bill said, over-brightly, I thought, from behind a large box peppered with small holes, and topped with a red ribbon tied in a bow, cradled in his arms, mewing and scrabbling sounds within. He thrust the box at me and I carried it into the living room.
Placing the box on the table, I opened the lid carefully and a little ball of mostly black with a touch of white fluff shrank into one corner, spitting and snarling.
‘Oh, Bill, she’s gorgeous! What an extraordinary present, thank you. Whatever gave you the idea?’
‘He, actually,’ said Bill, oozing smug self-satisfaction. ‘My mother told me you’ve had a rough time of it and I thought, what better way to cheer you up than give you this little companion.’
‘I can’t take him to Leatherhead,’ I said, doubtfully.
‘Oh no, it’s all been cleared with your mother. I gather she liked the idea, and my mother knows someone whose cat had kittens about six weeks ago and has been looking to offload them without putting them down.’ Nodding at the kitten Bill added, ‘He was the last one left. I gather he’s a touch livelier than the others.’
Bill moved next to me, peering at the kitten. A spreading dampness appeared in the corner of the newspaper lining the box.
‘He’s supposed to be toilet trained. My mother said she’d call round first with a tray and some cat litter,’ Bill said, looking wildly around as if the cat’s toilet would appear like magic.
‘Don’t worry, I know where it is. I found a bag with stuff under the kitchen sink. Now I know what that’s for. Mystery solved.’
Setting the cat’s litter tray up in a corner of the living room and placing a saucer of milk beside it, I reached down into the box to be greeted with tiny claws and teeth scrabbling and swiping at me.
‘Oh dear, maybe he’s too lively,’ said Bill, and I hastened to reassure him.
‘Oh, no, the poor creature’s probably scared, that’s all. Peggy used to hide under the table when we first got her, I remember, but she soon came round.’ Ensuring the door was firmly shut so he couldn’t escape, I set the kitten down on the floor near the saucer and we watched as he was drawn in and started lapping.
‘I’ll pop the kettle on while I’m dealing with this,’ I said, indicating the soggy box. ‘Will you stop for a cuppa?’
Bill brightened at not being instantly dismissed. ‘I’ll take it down to the dustbin for you,’ he offered.
‘No, stay here and keep an eye on him,’ I ordered, sidling out with the box.
We sat a little later companionably sipping tea, watching the kitten explore the room.
‘How’ve you been keeping, Bill? Enjoying sixth form?’
‘Not the same without Jon but I’m chuntering along. Doing the subjects I wanted. Keeping busy. And how about you?’
‘I’m guessing my mother told yours I had a touch of the ’flu which always leaves one feeling a bit low. Kind of you to want to cheer me up.’
‘Oh, I didn’t know about the ’flu.’ He took a deep breath at my puzzled look. ‘It was about your fiancé.’
I froze, the cup halfway to my mouth. What has my mother been saying?
Bill plunged on. ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’
I’m sure you are. Leaves the coast clear for you to try again.
‘I’ve never had a fiancé. Tell me about the subjects you’re doing now.’ Casually I replaced the cup on the saucer.
But Bill, the real purpose of his visit revealed, would not be deflected.
‘Your Canadian airman.’ Accusingly. ‘He asked you to marry him.’
I leapt up, furious. ‘He wasn’t my Canadian airman and his proposal came right out of the blue.’
James nuzzling my breasts, exploring me, entering me, filling me. Forgive me for denying you.
I snapped back to Bill. I know how to keep secrets. Stick as close to the truth as you can to avoid being tripped up later. Forcing myself to speak calmly and dispassionately, calculating that only Becky knew of my tryst on 15th June, and counting with my fingers for emphasis, I said,
‘I met him only three times. Once during M ay half term week when I was polite to an overseas visitor and showed him the National Gallery, once when my mother organised us into going to one of the Beaver Club’s weekly dances when I was low after Peggy died and once when he was on leave in early November and we walked in St James’ Park and had some luncheon and then he suddenly produced rings and proposed. I don’t know why he took a shine to me on such little acquaintance. Perhaps he was lonely, or maybe he even did it for a bet. I gather he was quite wealthy so he could probably afford to do that sort of thing on a whim. I might have been the last in a string of such girls.’ I shrugged. ‘I really don’t know. I just told him I have my education to finish and a teaching career to follow and refused him politely.’
Bill slowly rose in response, wide lips pursing, eyes narrowing, head jutting forward, jealousy oozing.
‘I can’t believe a chap would do that sort of thing just on a whim. And how did he manage to arrange to meet you last month if you didn’t encourage him? If he laid a hand on you…’
‘What would you do?’ I demanded, enraged again. ‘Dive down to the bottom of the North Sea and biff him on his very dead nose? He was fighting for the freedom of a country not even his own, risking his life many times daily.’
I made a deliberate effort to calm down again. ‘He kindly saw me home to my front door in the blackout after the dance to ensure my safety so he knew my address in West Norwood and after I moved things were still being forwarded to me from there. I hardly knew him. I certainly didn’t love him. How could I, on such short acquaintance? You know I don’t want to be anyone’s girl. I don’t want a young man. You know I want to teach. I want a life, Bill, not a husband.’
Bill stood silent, the kitten scrabbling at his shoelaces. Leaning down, I picked the kitten up and sat down again, stroking and tickling him, dodging his snapping teeth and claws until he relaxed a little onto my lap, emitting a gentle purring.
After several minutes of silent suppressed emotion Bill sighed, slumping back onto the seat opposite me.
‘All right, all right, I’m sorry I got the wrong end of the stick. I can see now our mothers’ve blown it out of all proportion. Besides,’ he added, cheering, ‘at least it shows you’ve got principles. If he was wealthy you could’ve said yes just for his money.’
‘I’m sorry there’s been a misunderstanding. My mother tends to exaggerate and romanticise things that just aren’t there.’ Am I now protesting too much? I returned my attention to the kitten. ‘It’s sweet of you to be concerned, though. Thank you for my Christmas present. What’s his name?’
‘He hasn’t got one yet. What will you call him?’
I considered. ‘He’s a bit of a scamp so I could call him Scampy.’
Bill hooted with laughter. ‘That’s cruel, every time you call his name he’ll think fish is in the offing!’
I laughed back. The first time I could remember laughing since…
‘Thank you for coming, Bill,’ I said, softening. ‘The ’flu’d got me really low. It’s good to have you around to cheer me up.’
‘Well, that was the plan. So, Scampy is it?’
I considered the kitten again. ‘I’d rather not have a neighbour report me to the RSPCA every time I call him indoors.’
Bill chuckled. The kitten yawned and stretched, rolling over onto his back on my lap, flexing his white paws at the end of little black legs, revealing his soft white-furred stomach.
‘Look at his cute little white boots,’ I exclaimed. ‘I’ll call him Booty.’
As if responding to the name, the kitten rolled back and sat up facing Bill, who laughed and said, ‘He looks as if he’s all dressed up in top hat ’n tails. Like Fred Astaire. You could call him Freddie.’
The kitten turned and started climbing up my front, sinking his claws into my breasts through my cardigan, reminding me that I was indecently dressed underneath. Noticing Bill’s observant glance I flushed a little and stood, gently disentangling the kitten and handing him to Bill.
‘I’m calling him Booty,’ I said firmly. Indicating my bare legs and slippered feet, I added, ‘Look after him while I finish dressing then I’ll fix us some lunch,’ and retreated to my room.
Booty became my companion, my solace. Granted a respite from heavy bombing over the next few days, each night I took him in a lidded, shawl-lined box, together with the cat litter tray, up to my room, shut the door and lifted the box lid. Booty would leap out, chase imaginary mice around the room and eventually settle, purring, onto the bed where stroking him soothed and calmed us both. When I awoke in the night weeping from half-remembered dreams I would reach out to find him perhaps curled up against me, or in the box beside my bed, and feel his little warm, alive body and be comforted. Then it seemed that Mr Hitler had decreed that the Christmas festivities were over and on the following nights, disturbed by air raid sirens, I scooped him up, placing him quickly in the box, ramming on the lid and taking him down to the back garden shelter where he entertained us with his lively antics while the City of London burned around St Paul’s, sky shimmering and sirens wailing.
Christmas blurred into the New Year. At New Year’s Day morning drinks Reginald Whitshere told us he’d heard that about fifty people had died in a public shelter in Southwark on the first night the bombing resumed after Christmas. ‘That’s why I won’t let Maud and Bill go to the public shelters,’ Reginald said, jutting out his chin, his podgy hands resting on his knees. ‘Death traps. And the Underground’s no better. Look at what happened to Balham station in October. Nothing left but a crater and most of ’em drowned because of a burst water main.’
‘Reginald,’ murmured Maud, looking nervously in my and Bill’s direction, but Reginald shrugged.
‘Can’t hide your head in the sand, eh, Ted,’ he said, turning to my father. ‘What I want to know is, why are we letting ’em through? What’re our boys up there doing about it? Eh?’
Dying, trying to save your measly self-satisfied skin, I thought, my nightmare vision of James’ last moments suddenly vivid. ‘They can’t do anything without night radar,’ I said indignantly. ‘It’s not their fault they can’t see anything in the dark with a blackout on the ground and being blinded by our own searchlights. They’re just not being given the proper equipment for night flying.’ Reginald looked at me, startled, and I realised everyone else was, too. I drew a shaky breath and, to deflect my unwitting audience from my pronouncement about night flying, of which I was supposed to know nothing, I turned to Maud and said,
‘It’s kind of you to be concerned about my sensitivities, Auntie Maud, but don’t worry. When you’ve had a bomb drop in the next field and half bury you it’s impossible to hide from the brutal reality of war.’
‘Pat!’ my mother exclaimed and I nodded apologetically in her direction, my haste to move the conversation along overriding my consideration for her sensitivities.
‘Don’t worry, Mummy, I’m sure the basement at the Beaver Club is quite safe.’
The Beaver Club. Meeting James. No, no don’t think about it. Of course, the more I told myself not to, the more I did and I began to look forward to returning to Leatherhead where there were fewer reminders of him and of what I had done.
‘I’ll miss you next week, my darling little Booty,’ I told the kitten on waking the first Friday of January, ‘but I’ll be back every weekend and holidays and you can keep Mummy company so she won’t feel so alone at night while I’m away.’ Booty, of course, took no notice, burrowing into my pile of clothes on my chair and popping his head up, wearing a brassiere cup like an enormous sun hat.
‘Pat,’ my mother called up, ascending the stairs and stopping outside the door. ‘A letter’s come from your school. Can you grab Booty so I can come in?’
I retrieved Booty from the chair and my mother entered and sat down on the edge of the bed.
‘The bungalow adjacent to yours has been destroyed over Christmas by a direct hit and yours has been badly damaged.’
‘What? Oh, no, Mrs Grice!’
‘She’s apparently fine,’ my mother said, scanning the letter. ‘She went to her sister in Devon for Christmas and her bungalow was empty.’
‘The other wasn’t?’
‘The letter doesn’t say.’
‘Oh my goodness, I only hope it was. They’re an elderly couple, devoted to each other.’
The significance of the news hit me.
‘So where am I going on Tuesday?’
‘You’re to report to the school office on Tuesday morning. It says to travel early on Tuesday and they’ll meanwhile get something sorted out for you.’
The familiar churning was back, shifting sands, chasm yawning. I was suddenly weeping, clinging to my mother like a drowning man to a rope.
‘I just can’t bear it. It’s just like this time last year. Every time I’ve got somewhere it’s taken away.’ Grief torrenting, drowning, annihilating. Knowing the school’s letter was just the trigger, James’ death letter before my eyes.
‘Hush, hush, it’s not so bad, they’ll find you somewhere else,’ my mother soothed, holding me close. After a while she disentangled herself and sat back, examining my face. ‘You’re still a bit peaky. I don’t think you’ve fully recovered from the ’flu. I’ll write to your school and say you’re still ill and will be back a few days late. That’ll give them time to sort something out properly then you can go to your billet the day before you start back. I’ll ask them if it’s possible for you and your friend Becky to stay together.’
My mother was a strange mixture, so often both childlike and childish, yet she could rise to a crisis magnificently and I opened my mouth, suddenly desperate to confide in her, to share my deepest secret, to ask her advice, to lean on the one person I should trust in all the world. A stinging, bitter soda memory surfaced along with Bill’s Christmas Eve visit inspired by my mother’s gossiping with Maud, and reason reasserted itself. I let the moment pass, nodding, ‘Thank you,’ and wiping my eyes. After my mother left I dressed slowly, drained of strength
and emotion, letting Booty’s antics draw me back to the present, a playful tug of war over my brassiere bringing a smile to my lips. After breakfast my mother left for the Beaver Club and my father retired for sleep.
Settling down to schoolwork, catching up on lessons I missed through the ’flu, I was interrupted after about half an hour by a frantic banging on the front door. Looking down from the window I saw Becky, hair flying and cheeks glistening, looking up at me.
‘Oh my goodness,’ I exclaimed, racing down and beating Mrs Haywood to the door. Nodding apologetically to her and ushering Becky up, I set out a chair into which she fell, panting and gasping,
‘Oh, Pat, the most awful thing.’
‘I know, I know,’ I said soothingly. ‘We got a letter this morning too. My mother’s going to ask for us to be billeted together.’
Looking at me wildly, comprehension dawning, Becky burst into tears and sobbed, ‘If only it was that.’ She dropped her head onto her arms on the table. ‘What am I going to do? I don’t want to leave. Everything was going so well.’
Thoroughly alarmed, kneeling and hugging her, I said, ‘Leave? Becky, what is it? What’s happened?’
Becky raised a tearstained face and looked down at me.
‘My mother’s moving to Golders Green and is taking me with her.’
I froze. My best friend. My only real, close, understanding friend. Who kept the secret of my mid-June tryst with James, who nursed me through my ’flu, to whom I owed so much.
‘You don’t need to leave St. Martin’s, though. Any school you went to would be evacuated and you might as well be evacuated to Leatherhead as anywhere else.’
‘I feel I’m letting you down.’
‘Nonsense. And anyway, I’m sure there’s something that can be arranged.’
‘No, you don’t understand. It’s all been arranged already. I’ll be eighteen next October. My mother wants me to marry Reuben by then. She wants it sooner but I was playing for time and said not before I’m eighteen. So she doesn’t see any point in me finishing sixth form. She’s organised everything. I’m starting a clerical job next week with a contact of my aunt’s. My life is over.’
The Keeping of Secrets Page 18