The Keeping of Secrets

by Alice Graysharp

  Jon staggered along Whitehall towards Westminster, drained of energy, his only emotion relief. Seeing the Red Lion across the road, he hesitated barely a moment before diving in to the lounge bar, waiting his turn and ordering a pint of best bitter. Retreating to a corner as the pub was very full he drank deeply, the alcohol relaxing his tense muscles. Just this one, then I’ll be off. Closing his eyes for a few moments, leaning against the wall, wondering how to explain alcohol-laden breath to his mother, he heard as if from afar a vaguely familiar female voice.

  ‘Jon, it is Jon, isn’t it?’

  He opened his eyes to a vision in a smart dark brown skirt suit, a white blouse and a cascade of autumn colours around a neck rising to a luscious-lipped mouth, a tip-tilted nose and large brown eyes set in luminous skin beneath shoulder length straight, shiny raven black hair. A memory surfaced of a warm curvaceous body pressing against him below soft, insistent lips. Summer 1940. Reward for walking her home from a party hosted by his cousin Margery. Feeling a stirring, a hardening, down boy, not now!, he stooped slightly forward, exclaiming wildly,

  ‘Stella is it? Yes, Stella, yes indeed.’

  They smiled at their mutual recognition and he thought, I never followed her up, I can’t imagine why not, she’s gorgeous.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked.

  He raised his glass. ‘Draining this.’ And promptly did, which neatly avoided answering the real question. Waving the empty glass, he said, mesmerised by her eyes, ‘And you?’

  ‘I’m here with a couple of the girls from work.’

  ‘You work around here?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s getting late.’ He indicated the door. ‘Don’t get caught in the blackout. D’you still live in Tooting?’

  ‘Got rooms in Victoria I’m sharing with the girls. Convenient for work. We sometimes have to work late.’

  ‘Victoria’s expensive.’

  ‘Rooms to rent are ten-a-penny since half of London decamped to the countryside. Why don’t you join us for another drink?’

  Conscious of his uniform in a pub which seemed to consist mostly of besuited office workers and parliamentary aides, he followed her to a small table to the side in the lounge bar. Stella introduced him to Dierdre, short, a little plump, blue eyes, brown hair and a welcoming smile, and Bridget, tall, blond and thin with a gash for a mouth.

  ‘Ladies,’ said Jon, ‘let me buy you all a drink.’

  ‘I’ll give you a hand,’ said Stella and they joined the crush at the bar, pressed close to each other, laughing and exclaiming at the coincidence that had brought them together.

  ‘So you’re home on leave and you haven’t been home yet. You naughty boy.’ Stella wagged her finger at him. ‘What will you tell your mother?’

  ‘I’m very inventive,’ said Jon, and she replied, ‘Ah, yes, from what I recall I’d bet you can be very inventive!’ and fortunately for Jon it was his turn to order and he turned to the barman with relief.

  Returning to the table, Jon squatted on a stool and withstood a barrage of questions, saying nothing more than, ‘I’m in REME and I’m training to teach searchlight maintenance.’

  ‘Oooh, you can turn your searchlight on me anytime, soldier,’ said Dierdre and the three girls screamed with laughter. Jon, supressing surprise at a Max Miller-type joke emanating from feminine lips, relaxing further with the second pint, joined in the merriment, and it was only as he threw his head back later to laugh at yet another innuendo that he caught sight of the clock behind the bar. Downing the remainder of the pint quickly he said, ‘Ladies, it’s nearly nine-thirty and I’m sorry I have to go. It’s been a pleasure meeting you,’ nodding to Dierdre and Bridget, ‘and meeting you again,’ to Stella, and he rose a little unsteadily, grabbing his rucksack, realising as he did so that he was ravenously hungry.

  ‘I’ll come to the door,’ said Stella. She stepped outside with him, clearly reluctant to see him go.

  ‘I’m seeing Margery tomorrow,’ she said. ‘I’ll tell her I saw you.’

  Find a young lady in London instead.

  ‘Why don’t you and Margery come over for tea tomorrow? I’m sure my mother won’t mind. She misses the house being filled with family and friends. Everyone’s off doing their bit for the war effort. She hasn’t seen me since before Easter. Ask Margery if Len or Jenny’s around and can come over too.’ He nodded towards the pub interior. ‘Your friends, too.’

  Stella beamed.

  ‘I’d be delighted. I’ll pass on your invite. I’m assuming Margery knows where you live.’

  ‘See you tomorrow. About three?’ Jon hesitated and Stella stepped boldly forward, grabbing up at his head, pulling down, kissing him hard on his lips.

  ‘See you tomorrow,’ Stella said, stepping back, and he reeled away towards Westminster, resuming the walk he had commenced two hours earlier. Except in the blackout everything looked different and even with directed torchlight he stumbled several times and twice stopped to check his bearings.

  Knocking on the basement door, guessing his parents would be in the cosy warmth and safety of the lowest room of the house, Jon did his best to sober up. His father’s voice called out,

  ‘Who’s there?’

  ‘Jon.’

  The door was flung open wide and his mother stood, shocked and pale, the light streaming out into the night. Jon stepped up to her and quickly shut the door behind him. She threw her arms round him, which took him aback, for she had never been the most demonstrative of mothers, and he felt her trembling against him.

  ‘Good to see you, boy,’ said his father, limping forward and grabbing his hand.

  ‘Jon!’ exclaimed his mother, drawing back and sniffing, her blue eyes glinting, her greying head shaking with disapproval. ‘I declare that’s alcohol and perfume. What have you been up to?’

  ‘A long story, Mum, and one I’d be happy to share with you over a plate of food. I haven’t eaten since midday.’

  Hastily reassuring his parents that no, his unexpected appearance didn’t mean he’d deserted or been drummed out of the army, showing them his travel warrant to prove it, explaining that his unit were given leave at short notice and he was in such a rush to come down it didn’t occur to him to telephone one of his father’s shoe repair shops, that there were problems with the tube that meant he decided to walk part of the way and being thirsty dropped into a pub and who should he bump into there but an old friend of cousin Margery’s and, warning that there would be a few extra for tea tomorrow, Jon piled into the remains of a cold meat pie, raw carrots and bread followed by rhubarb pie, washed down with several cups of tea.

  The next afternoon the house was filled with laughter and gaiety for the first time since Christmas, Margery bringing her sister Jenny and a mutual cousin Alan, on shore leave while his ship was being repaired, and Stella bringing her two friends from the previous evening. As she was leaving, Stella said, ‘Would you appreciate the odd letter from a friend while you shiver this winter in the frozen north?’ and Margery added eagerly, ‘Oh, yes, give us your address up there,’ so Jon did so, thinking, CO’s orders!

  A letter was waiting from Pat when Jon arrived back at camp. The sight of her handwriting brought a surge of protective affection and he thought of her hourglass figure and her high cheekbones and her sparking eyes and her hand trembling coyly in his and her innocence compared with the sirens with whom he’d shared the weekend, and he felt a heel for encouraging Stella.

  My dearest Jon

  Thank you so much, my love, for your letter telling me that you are safe and well. I had worried myself quite unnecessarily over the summer and even got a letter from your mother wondering if I had heard from you – at which point I realised that your lack of correspondence was not with me only and while I’m sorry you mother was so concerned I admit I did breathe a sigh of relief that your silence was not of your choosing for I know how close you are to her and you would not wish her distressed unnecessarily.

  Pa
rdon my rambling, I am just so thrilled to have your letter I really don’t know what to do with myself.

  My hostess, Mrs Elaine Morley, has offered accommodation for you at her father-in-law’s house, which adjoins us next door, should there be a chance of your snatching even just 24 hours’ leave and coming over to Doncaster. Mrs Morley senior says that even in these wartime conditions it’s not a difficult journey, via Manchester and Sheffield, or via Leeds. It would certainly be a quicker journey for you than if I were at college in London! Mr Morley senior is a builder and has a telephone, his number is Doncaster 2936, so if you can get to a telephone Elaine Morley says to just let her father-in-law know when you can come and she will make all the arrangements.

  Jon, dearest, it would be so lovely to see you again. I am sorry we couldn’t coincide your leave and my college holidays over Easter and with you being incommunicado over the summer and me up here in Doncaster for much of the year I have worked out that we were last together last Christmas. I would so love to see you again before this Christmas!

  Jon put the letter down. Ironic that he was now committed to going to London for leave when Pat was so much closer. He thought the problem through and decided he could just do it depending on the time he had to report for a reply. Leave on a Friday afternoon, do the drop, take the first train to Doncaster on the Saturday morning, spend time with Pat, go back to London on Sunday morning if, and only if, he was required to collect a reply. Then take the train back up to Bury. Only slight technical hitch was the cost. He couldn’t use a travel warrant to travel between London and Doncaster as that would be picked up on by the lieutenant who issued it, so it would be rather expensive funding it, but not impossible. I can tell her I’ve got 24 hours’ leave Saturday morning to Sunday morning. Pat’s own idea.

  Jon waited impatiently for the next Friday to arrive. Presenting himself at the major’s door at twelve thirty, he was nonplussed to find that the major wasn’t there. The lieutenant found him dithering outside and told him the major was away for a few days and, no, had left no instructions for Jon to take a message to the major’s tailor in London, neither had he left instructions for a travel warrant to be issued for Jon.

  At the post-lunch session Staff Sergeant Cooper told the unit that there would be no leave that weekend and they were to report for duty as usual the next morning, ‘as Mr Hitler’s war don’t stop on a Friday afternoon so neither does ours.’ The unit members grumbled among themselves later, Bertie storming ahead to their hut, and flinging himself on his bed thumping the mattress beside him exclaiming, ‘Shit,’ with each thud. ‘Shit, shit, shit!’

  ‘He’s got a girrul and a cheap hotel lined up for the weekend in Manchester. He met her at a dance there last Saturday while you were away.’ Graham, the tall, thin, auburn-haired highland Scot, older than Jon by two or three years, seconded from the Royal Engineers, explained to Jon. ‘Don’t understand it myself eitherrr. Last week we’re told we’re a Monday to Friday outfit, now we’re not. What’s gooing on?’

  Jon shrugged. ‘That’s the army for you.’ Thinking, is this because the major’s away and they don’t need a cover for me being away on leave?

  ‘Fookin’ army my arse,’ said Bob, flicking back the quiff of his oily black hair and speaking loudly above Bertie’s continued thumping and swearing. ‘There’s soomat fishy gooin’ on.’

  ‘All right, Bertie, we’ve got the message.’ This loudly from Stephen in his melodious Welsh accent. He took off his cap, running his hand through his short cropped dark hair. ‘I’ll have to break the news to my girl too. Had her lined up for a dance in Bury tomorrow night.’

  ‘Oh, surely they can’t make us work Saturday night.’

  ‘Ooh yes they can,’ said Graham, ‘Doon’t you know there’s a warrr on?’

  The hut door opened and banged shut behind Peter who tossed a small mail sack on the table beside the door. ‘Mine’s a pint for getting this.’

  ‘Bollocks,’ said Bob. ‘We all take our fookin’ turn to get that. No one bought me a pint last week.’

  My social education started with my childhood at the Elephant and Castle, Jon thought, but even in one of the roughest parts of London Bob’s language would take some beating. Yet when it came to compiling reams of complicated mathematical formulae Bob was second to none. How Bob came to be picked for this specialist team of high- and public-schooled boffins Jon had no idea, but it showed that the system worked, for Bob’s ability to cut to the chase and pick out the one weak link was most remarkable. For all his bluster Bob had the most precise and analytical brain of them all.

  Graham, moving to the table, opened the bag and proceeded to lob its contents one by one to the recipients, commenting as he did so. Eventually he picked out a pink envelope, and, sniffing and ‘Ahh’ing, tossed it in Jon’s direction, declaring, ‘Gardenia, I swearrr that’s garrdenia. A voluptuous young lady I fucked through the summer of ’forty wore gardenia. Herrr mother had a stash left overrr from before the warrr. I’d recognise it anywhere.’

  Jon, diving for the envelope, expected Pat’s flowing writing and was nonplussed to see a rounded, more childish hand. He opened it warily, exclaiming, ‘Good God,’ when he saw the signature at the bottom of the fourth and last page. Good girl, he added silently.

  ‘’Oo is it, mate?’ Bob asked, intrigued by Jon’s reaction.

  ‘Someone I was hoping to see this weekend,’ Jon lied, then, remembering his hard-on in the pub, allowed a curl of his lip at the half-lie and he must have given something away in his expression for Bertie, recovering from his anguish and swinging his long legs over the edge of the bed, said, ‘Ah ha, perhaps not his young lady in Doncaster?’

  Bob grabbed the envelope.

  ‘London postmark.’

  Bertie repeated his question as a statement. ‘Not his young lady in Doncaster!’

  ‘Fookin’ two-timer,’ Bob said, admiration tinging his tone. ‘There’s oos thinkin’ yer’s too much of a toff ter dip yer wick in one and we find yer’s got two on the go at the same fookin’ time. You’ll be needing dooble the army condom issue at this rate.’

  Putting the letter back in the envelope retrieved from Bob after a playful tussle, Jon placed it in his top pocket to read in detail later. ‘Any more post for the rest, Graham?’ he asked.

  ‘Don’t change the subject,’ said Graham, ‘You’ve been well and trrruly found out!’

  Another three weeks passed before Jon was sent to London again. By now it was early October and Pat’s letters had become increasingly frantic, while Stella’s had become increasingly saucy. He left earlier than last time, skipping lunch, ears ringing to ‘Get stuck in there, mate,’ and ‘Give her one from me,’ and ‘Here, catch, have my spare,’ and he was in and out of Whitehall Terrace a good hour earlier than before. ‘Report to me at twelve hundred hours at twenty one Camden High Road. Go round to the alley at the back and up the steps to the door. Same knock and password phrases as for here. Wear civvies.’

  Damn, to be sure of getting get back in time he’d have to leave Doncaster at the crack of dawn and even then it would be touch and go. He felt weary, the tension of the cloak and dagger routine draining, and he wondered if Stella would be in the Red Lion this evening. Determined to walk straight past, weakening at the last moment and arguing to himself that stopping for a pint wouldn’t take much out of his evening, he was immensely disappointed that Stella wasn’t there. Finding a corner to perch, nursing his dwindling pint and still debating whether to attempt a lightening visit to Doncaster, he suddenly spotted her making her way to the bar. He sidled up to her.

  ‘Stella, it is Stella, isn’t it?’

  Stella turned and, shrieking, threw her arms around his neck, hugging him tight as he fought to keep the remains of the beer in the glass. He felt an instant response to her and shrank his hips back a little, not wishing to give too much away, but the tilt of her head before she pulled his head down and planted a firm kiss on his lips suggested otherwise.

&
nbsp; ‘Naughty boy,’ she said, as if she knew he liked to hear her say that to him. ‘Not been home yet again, soldier?’ Dierdre and Bridget, and another girl, short, dark and busty, introduced as Beryl, crowded round and soon he was enjoying another evening of risqué anecdotes and adoring feminine company. Their merriment attracted other comers and by the time he made his excuses the girls were surrounded by enough male hangers-on, he thought, to make his departure insignificant. Stella came to the door again.

  ‘Thank you for your letters,’ he said. ‘I should have mentioned it sooner. They’ve been just the ticket.’ For keeping the pretence up, he told himself, for following orders.

  ‘I’m free tomorrow.’

  Decision made.

  ‘What would you like to do?’ Catching the gleam in her eye, hastily adding, ‘Cinema, I mean? Trip out of London somewhere? Meet at Victoria Station and decide when we know what the weather’s like? Midday? We can make the most of the day. Evenings are drawing in now, and I’d like to see you home safely.’

  They caught the train to Dorking the following day, grabbing lunch in a café in the high street and enjoying the warm autumn sunshine in the park sloping up towards the North Downs.

  ‘I’d take you to Box Hill,’ said Jon, ‘but it’s requisitioned like any piece of open land.’ He pointed out the high ridgeline beyond the main road. ‘I’m determined to go there one day. I’m told you can see the South Downs thirty miles away on a good day.’

  ‘I don’t really know the area,’ said Stella. ‘Have you been here much before?’

  Jon shook his head. ‘Not Dorking. But I know Leatherhead just north of here. Pat was evacuated there and I’ve a pretty good idea of the lie of the land.’

  ‘Pat.’

  Stupid, stupid, why mention her now? Because I’m feeling guilty.

  He shrugged. ‘Friend of a friend.’

  Stella turned to him. ‘Jon, I’m not daft. Margery told me you’ve a young lady tucked away in the north. But sometimes, Jon, you just have to live in the moment. God knows that’s how we survived the Blitz. Then there was the bombing we had here last January and March and again in June. Who knows when Jerry will come hunting again? Could be tomorrow. Or who knows when you’ll be sent into the thick of it? We’ve got Sicily under our belts and we’re into Italy and they said on the wireless only last week we’ve taken Naples. Everyone knows all these troops over here mean we’ll be going for northern Europe one day.’ She raised a hand, placing it on his shoulder. ‘I’m not looking for a commitment from you. Just some fun in a drab, rationed, regulated life.’