The summer slipped into autumn and, grieving my lost friendship, I sent Becky a wedding present. The bombing of the American ships in Pearl Harbour by the Japanese in December came as a surprise and as a relief to the British. At last we’re not alone in the war now, I thought, guiltily aware of the cost in terms of lives but hoping that America’s involvement would save more in the long run by speeding the war to an end.
1941 merged into 1942 and, with no sign of the bombing returning, Jon and I continued our regular pilgrimages to the City of London to see what progress was being made in clearing the bomb sites. While rubble was gradually removed, the low roofless walls of many buildings remained, no money being available for site clearance and redevelopment, and, as time wore on, the ruins became picturesque, self-seeded with a variety of wild flowers and climbing plants. Articles in magazines and newspapers about the ruins’ vegetation abounded and Jon and I were just two of the hordes of ‘ruin-gawpers’, a phrase coined by a writer at the time.
Jon sometimes invited me along with Bill, if back from Reading, Mary, Helen and other friends and cousins of his own over to his home in Kennington. The ground floor, reached by a flight of steps, contained a sitting room where a spread of dividing doors to the rear room could be opened to double the floor space and we rehearsed mini-theatricals and played charades to while away the miserable winter weekend afternoons. Bill saw Mary and Helen home safely to Clapham on such occasions, Jon offering to split the escorting duties to ensure my safe return.
One Saturday a little before Easter neither Mary nor Helen were with us and Bill insisted on accompanying me home.
‘No need, Jon, for you to put yourself out. I’m going straight back to Brixton and it’s no trouble to overshoot a little. Pat is, after all, my oldest friend.’
I acquiesced. Jon had never formally asked me to be his girl and for either of us to make a fuss now might reveal more than I wished Bill to know. As Bill turned to the door, Jon shrugged at me and mouthed, ‘I’ll write.’
Bill and I set off. A 33 was disappearing in the distance but a 16 came along soon enough and we hopped on, alighting on Brixton Hill near the junction with Water Lane. As we turned the corner I was conscious of the beech tree lying to our left at the end of the Rush Common land, and perhaps Bill was too, as he suddenly burst out with, ‘What is it between you and Jon? Has he asked you to walk out with him? I know you see him when I’m not around. You can tell me, you know. I’m just a tad disappointed he hasn’t had the decency to tell me himself.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I scolded. ‘Jon’s become a friend, that’s all. I don’t see him all the time. We occasionally go to walk the ruins of the City of London. Lots of people do that. It’s an afternoon pastime for Londoners. We don’t do it very often anyway because I still do my Sunday morning walks with my father which is quite enough walking for one weekend.’
Bill grunted.
‘He’s never asked me to be his girl,’ I added hotly. ‘There’s nothing wrong with going for a walk or to a concert with a friend.’
‘If he does ask you I’ll tell him about your Canadian.’
Chilled by the venom in his voice and suddenly afraid, I pulled Bill to a halt, grabbing his arm, hissing,
‘There’s nothing to tell. You already know that. What’s the point? Only to show you’re jealous.’
The word hung between us like a bad stench.
I tried conciliation. ‘Look, Bill, you and me have stayed on in the sixth form for a reason. Because we want to better ourselves and for me that doesn’t involve getting tied down with anyone before I’ve had a chance to do that. Besides, Jon’s never given me any indication he wants me to be his girl irrespective of whether I’d agree or not. He’s never even touched me beyond a helping hand over the bombed out ruins, let alone,’ nodding in the direction of the beech tree, ‘trying to kiss me.’ Bill flushed angrily. Stupid, stupid, antagonising him. I drew in a breath.
‘I’m sorry. I appreciate your concern. Please forget all about it and let’s get on with life. Besides,’ I added, trying to lighten the mood, ‘I’ve heard via your mother and mine that you’ve been seeing a bit of Mary.’
‘Nothing serious, she’s just a friend.’
‘Well, there you are, just like me and Jon.’
We parted at the doorstep, Bill refusing an offer to come in, indicating the gloom, and I tried to be conciliatory by suggesting we meet up the following Saturday. ‘Come to my place,’ said Bill. ‘I’ll get a few friends together there.’
In view of Bill’s outburst I was surprised to see Jon at Bill’s the next weekend. Jon can be very charming and persuasive and terribly reasonable, I thought. However much Bill resents Jon liking me, Bill’s definitely fallen under his spell too. I wondered if Bill had also spoken with Jon and been reassured, as Bill seemed to have given Jon and me the benefit of the doubt, much his usual cheerful and joking self, and even waved us off as we left early that evening, Jon saying he wanted to check out the forthcoming attractions at Brixton Cinema. Proceeding along Acre Lane, Jon, as a gentleman should, walked outside, shielding me from the road and my grandfather’s shop. I hadn’t walked past it since the day I first met Jon, and I tried to hurry us along but Jon caught my arm, saying,
‘Look, there’s Madog Roberts. We’ll stop and say hello.’
On the opposite side my grandfather was gathering in the shop’s pavement displays in preparation for closing up for the night. Horrified, I pulled Jon back.
‘My God, you know him?’
‘Of course I do. My father’s a Lambeth Counsellor and a local shoe repairer. He knows lots of local shopkeepers and their workers. I’ve met Mr Roberts a few times in recent years.’ Jon stopped, looking down at me. ‘Roberts. Of course, I should have realised. He’s related to you?’
‘He went to prison for handling stolen goods. He’s only been out two or three years.’
‘He only ended up there because he got pressurised by a local protection racket. My father does volunteer work with ex-prisoners. He helped Mr Roberts find this employment. Mr Roberts seems to be managing and keeping his head clear of trouble. Pat, how do you know him? What’s wrong?’
Tears streaming, legs trembling, I half dragged Jon along, using him as a shield as we left the shop behind on the other side.
‘He’s my grandfather.’
‘Pat, what’s wrong with him being your grandfather? There’s something up. Stop, please.’
Refusing to halt, I let go and half ran ahead, Jon striding hard to keep up with me. Veering across the road opposite the Town Hall, I turned down towards St Matthew’s and Jon caught my arm and steered me to the stone bench outside the church.
‘Pat, you’re obviously in some distress. Tell me.’
Jon sat down beside me and I looked at him doubtfully. Can I trust him? I loved him, feeling somehow incomplete when I wasn’t with him. But trust him with my deepest emotional scars?
There was only one way to find out.
‘I had a happy life as a small child, just my parents and me, renting rooms in Clapham. One day, when I was four, my grandfather turned up with Uncle Barry in tow. They were homeless and jobless and moved in. The rooms were too cramped so we moved to Brixton and squashed in to a tiny mews house.
‘My grandfather has a fierce temper and expected everyone to run around doing his bidding. And if you didn’t, he shouted and ranted and thumped the table and threw things and if they smashed that was too bad and he would punch the wall. One day I was playing with a couple of toys and he accidentally trod on one and said I’d put it there to hurt him and he hit me and threw all my toys in the fire. I was absolutely petrified of him. Sometimes he’d have terrible shouting matches with his sons and if I’d hidden under the table where the floor length tablecloth concealed me and the arguing started, I was trapped there. I was so scared I’d wet myself and he’d smell it and haul me out from under the table and I’d get smacked for being naughty and sent to bed with bread and water.
And my father stood by and did nothing to stop him or get rid of him.’
Sighing, I added, ‘Don’t get me wrong, Jon, I love my father dearly and as I’ve grown up I’ve realised that he was as much a victim of this bully as I was, but I’ve always felt let down about it. I couldn’t cope and by the time I was five-and-a-half I’d become very ill with boils all over my body and my hair fell out and in the end the doctors diagnosed nervous dyspepsia. But still my parents did nothing. Then one day a lady turned up with a boy of about eight in tow and demanded my grandfather look after her because her husband had found out she was carrying on with my grandfather and thrown her out. And so he threw my parents and me out of the house to make room for her and the boy. It was actually a blessing for me because it gave me a chance to recover and my grandmother, that’s my mother’s mother, came to live with us until she got married two years ago this summer.’
I drew breath and put my hand on Jon’s arm. ‘Please Jon, promise me you won’t tell anyone anything about this. Don’t let my parents know I’ve told you. My grandfather’s had other relationships. If you meet his wife, that’s my father’s mother, who he left destitute when my father was twelve, you must promise never to mention his name, let alone the fact that you know him. It would be too distressing for her.’
Jon put his hand over mine. ‘I promise. All your secrets are safe with me. ‘Secret-keeper’ is my middle name. I’m so sorry, Pat, that you had such an unhappy time.’
‘That’s when we got Peggy, when we moved out. The doctor’d said a pet might help me and he was right.’ To Jon’s quizzical look, I added, ‘My dog. She was loving and fun and, I forgot, you won’t have known her. She died in the summer nearly two years ago.’ Remembering that weekend, panicking in case I said anything more about it, I stood up. ‘It’s getting dark. I’m sorry I’ve kept you.’
‘Not at all.’ For a moment I thought he might put his arm round me and was disappointed he didn’t, but instead he stood and gestured for us to walk on. ‘I’m privileged you’ve felt able to tell me about it.’
As spring turned into summer Jon encouraged me to share with him the family secrets and sorrows that had burdened my childhood. He held my hand as I wept afresh for my Uncle Barry, killed in a tragic and avoidable lift accident, plunging to his death down a lift shaft because his fellow lift engineer, leaving him to unjam the top floor door from the outside, had moved the lift down to the ground floor without warning him, contravening safety requirements.
‘You’ve never really been able to grieve for yourself over this,’ observed Jon. ‘You were there when your father opened the evening paper. You were what, nine, ten? You wouldn’t want to do anything to hurt your father so you never talked to anyone about how you felt. You know, you’ve been grieving for your father. Now it’s time to grieve for yourself.’
‘I shouldn’t be burdening you with these things.’
‘Nonsense, that’s what I’m here for. You can tell me anything, you know. It seems to me that throughout your childhood you were presented with events and experiences even an adult would be hard put to cope with. Tell me about these things, I’m here for you. It’s time you forgave yourself for the things you couldn’t help. You’ve been carrying too many other people’s burdens for too long. And I promise you my lips are sealed. I’ll never reveal what you’ve told me to another soul.’
I told him about my half-aunt two years younger than me at my school, whom I was forbidden to acknowledge, not knowing who amongst my contemporaries knew of her relationship through my grandfather to me, afraid to get close to anyone in case family secrets became public knowledge and shamed me and my parents.
I told him of my grandmother’s secret shame over her illegitimate birth and the secret of my own mother’s illegitimacy.
Because I was in love with Jon I told him secrets I would never have dreamt of telling anyone else. I grew to trust him and believe in his integrity. Jon soothed my soul. But I wondered how soothing he would be if he were ever to know the truth about me. I was afraid he would ask me to be his girl and bring about my deepest secret’s unveiling, yet I wanted to be his girl so desperately.
My birthday being a Monday, taking the afternoon off work Jon journeyed to Leatherhead and took me out for a special birthday tea in Gregory’s tearooms. Returning me to my digs, he charmed Mrs Brindley, who said to me after he left,
‘There, I told you not to give in to your friend Bill. You’ve found your young man in this one.’
‘I’ve known him for over a year but he’s not asked me to be his girl.’
‘He’s not far off, my dear. And he’s worth the wait.’
Early the following month I waited excitedly for Jon’s train to steam into Leatherhead Station. Revising for Higher Certificate exams was easiest at Mrs Brindley’s and I hadn’t seen Jon for three weeks. Having just finished the exams, this weekend was my last in Leatherhead before the Sixth Form Leavers’ Assembly. Some of the girls, eighteen the previous autumn, had already joined the forces, and the Leavers’ Assembly was likely to be a small affair, but I wanted to stay and say my last, formal goodbye to the teachers and the school, and to the town that had been so much of my life for the past three years.
Jon’s brown-topped head sailed above the sea of passengers and, spotting me, he broke into a broad smile, my cheeks contracting in response. For a moment I thought he might clasp me to him, but he moved forward only to accept my peck on his cheek.
‘Good journey?’
‘Yes, thanks. You know, the route brought me past Motspur Park which I know well from my Tenison days, our playing fields were there. When this wretched war’s over I’ll take you there to see me playing football and cricket for the Old Tenisonians.’
When this awful war’s over I’ll take you up and fly you so high even the clouds will look like dollshouses.
No, no, not today. I haven’t thought of him in weeks. I can’t bear to think of him with Jon here.
Passing through the down platform exit and along the drive to Station Road, unnerved by the sudden memory, I observed acerbically, ‘You’re a great optimist. So far the Americans are over here and that’s about it. The Germans still train guns on us across the channel, we’re not regaining any of the ground we’ve lost in North Africa, the Russians are still on the back foot and we gave the Japs Singapore in February.’
Jon drew close to me, looking hurriedly around, putting one hand on my lower arm. ‘Ssh, don’t talk like that. You’ll get us arrested for spreading alarm and despondency. Regulation 39B. People have been fined and jailed for less.’
At first I thought he was joking, but the anxious vertical creases between his eyebrows and the downward droop of his perfect, kissable lips suggested otherwise. I patted his hand with my free one.
‘Don’t worry, I trust you and there’s no one close by.’
‘All the same, be careful and don’t say anything like that again, even in private. You never know who might be listening.’
You’re not my parent, I thought resentfully. I removed my hand and released my arm from his grip and we walked silently alongside each other.
Jon sighed. ‘Sorry to lecture you when I’ve only just arrived. It’s good to see you again. Tell me about today. What’s this about a War Savings Fair?’
‘I don’t know whether it’s a special Leatherhead thing,’ I said, ‘or whether lots of towns have War Savings Fairs, but we’re supposed to have been saving up for months and bring our savings to the fair and spend it and each stall when it’s covered its costs gives the money it makes to the war effort.’
We made our way towards the Fair, held on local playing fields, skirting people lining the route from the town to the field.
‘Stop here,’ I said near the entrance where an enterprising local had set up a stall selling drinks. ‘The weather’s not been ideal recently but with the sun out we might get a bit thirsty while we wait.’
‘Wait for what?’
‘The parade. Ah, here i
t comes.’
The distant strains of a brass band growing gradually louder and the crowd swelling, I was pleased of the excuse to stand closer to Jon. Carbolic soap, engine smoke, he must have had the train window open, and a slightly earthy, musky smell. I leaned a little into him to allow a small child to pass in front of me. A man smell, I thought, and a memory flashed of a similar, male, smell mingling with cigarette smoke… stop it, stop thinking of him, stop thinking at all.
Looking over my shoulder, catching Jon smiling down at me, thinking, put your arm round me, please, please, I can’t bear this platonic friendship any longer, the band hoving into view and the parade passing in a blur, I fought to keep my self-control. Concentrate on what’s in front of you, not behind, I told myself sternly, then wished I hadn’t as the armed forces parading past included a unit of young Canadian soldiers led by an older, firm-jawed, blue-eyed senior officer in a peaked cap topping fair, cropped hair. Thank God he’s in khaki, not air force blue, I thought, forcing myself to remain ramrod straight, unmoving and unmoved as the Canadians passed. The parade of regular servicemen and -women was rounded off by a selection of armoured vehicles, followed by the Home Guard and other uniformed groups including guides and scouts, brownies and cubs.
As the end of the procession turned through the gate the crowd followed, and, with a ‘Pat,’ Jon grabbed my hand, and, stepping back, we joined the queue for the refreshment stall.
Wandering around the various stalls, trying our luck on the hoopla and shove ha’penny, tombola and buzzer wire, stopping from time to time to admire the army gymnastics display and the heavy artillery loading and firing display (Jon assuring me they were blanks), we made our way past a mini-railway giving rides to children and meandered gradually towards the far side of the field where two enormous structures were erected, one a film set style wooden house frontage with scaffolding rising behind and the other a high square scaffolding tower.
The Keeping of Secrets Page 21