“I’m quite happy to go to the pictures. And besides, we don’t know what is on the program at the concert hall. It may be an evening of Stravinsky and the like. All atonal squeaking and bleating.”
“You aren’t an aficionado of modern music?”
“Of some, yes. I rather like the new jazz music from America. But I prefer my classical music to be less experimental. A legacy of my upbringing, I suppose.”
“Was your father a musician?”
“A cleric. He’s attached to Wells Cathedral. I grew up in a house a stone’s throw away.”
“Are your parents still living?”
“Yes, fortunately. You said you live with your mother. Is your father . . . ?” She left the question unsaid, for it seemed indelicate to simply come out and ask if the man were dead.
“He died nearly a decade ago. I came home from school to live with my mother—I have two sisters, but they’d married and moved away already.”
So he was in his early thirties, just like her. “Had you finished university?”
“I had my undergraduate degree. I read history at Edinburgh, and then the plan was for me to follow my father into law. He was a barrister here in Liverpool.”
“But instead . . . ?”
“I decided I’d had enough of school. I went to the Herald and climbed on the bottom rung of the ladder. Became a subeditor and general dogsbody to the rest of the staff.”
“From there to editor in chief in a decade. Very impressive.”
“More like twelve years. The war helped, of course. I mean . . . that is, I hope you know what I mean. So many men were gone, and those who might have competed for positions with me had left the paper.”
“Don’t apologize. You served your country, too. And I’m not saying that as a sop to your feelings.”
Their drinks came, then, and their food shortly thereafter, and as they ate and drank they talked of the strange summer it had been so far. Mr. Ellis was particularly troubled by the rioting that had flared up in Liverpool and other port cities at the beginning of June, only to be quelled in days. Quelled, not resolved.
“The dock workers’ anger and discontent that fueled the riots, especially the ones the police have characterized as racial in nature, hasn’t gone anywhere,” he noted. “A day or two of fistfights and rocks through shop windows isn’t enough to solve the problems this city is facing.”
“I agree. I thought it deplorable, the way the papers—yours excepted, of course—characterized the riots. As if the color of a man’s skin is the only thing worth describing about him.”
“You’re right, but you also can’t deny that race was a factor in the riots.”
“You don’t mean to say that the rioters ran amok because they were black, or Indian, or—”
“Not at all. The dock workers rioted because they are treated like the lowest of the low, are expected to survive on wages that would have been regarded as criminally low a century ago, and then are blamed by their white neighbors for depressing the job market. There’s only so much a man can take before he cracks.”
“They didn’t do much for their cause, I’m afraid.”
“No, they didn’t, but I can’t blame them for it. In any case, it’s only the beginning. Look what happened in Luton on Peace Day—their town hall burned to the ground, the city center laid waste.”
“You think the same could happen here?”
“I’m almost certain it will. Parliament has just introduced legislation that will bar the police from unionizing, and already there’s talk of their going out on strike. Can you imagine what would occur? Anarchy, pure and simple.”
It was a terrible thought. The riots in June had been frightening enough, but if unrest like that were to spill beyond the confines of a single district and consume the city as a whole, or even the nation . . .
“Don’t look so downcast, Miss Brown. I shouldn’t have sounded so definite about it. Times are hard, yes, but we’ve all pulled through worse. We may well do so again.”
“I suppose so. Everyone seems content enough where I live.”
“In your boardinghouse?”
“Yes. On Huskisson Street.”
“Not far from here.”
“Not far at all.”
“Do you like it there?”
“I do. My landladies are two sisters, the Misses Macleod, and there are three other women at the house besides me.”
“A happy place?”
“I would say so. Certainly we’re very chummy with one another. Do you live in the city center, too?”
“I’m afraid not. It would be rather easier if I did, but my parents lived in Grassendale, on Salisbury Road. It would be sensible to live nearer to work, but my mother is very attached to the house, and to her garden, so we’ve stayed put. It’s not far on the train, at any rate.”
They had finished their meal; rather to Charlotte’s surprise, she had eaten every bite of her pie. It was nearly half past seven; the pictures would have started already, and if they wished to see the newsreels they would have to hurry.
“Is there any film you’re especially keen to see?” he asked as they crossed Ranelagh and arrived at the foot of Lime Street.
“It’s been so long since I went to the pictures that I couldn’t even hazard a guess.”
“I confess the same. Shall we try this cinema? It looks nice enough.”
The Scala’s program had already begun, although the man at the box office assured them they had only missed some old Charlie Chaplin shorts. Their seats were good ones, on the aisle no more than six or seven rows back, and although it was only a Thursday night there were musicians in the pit at the front—not an entire orchestra’s worth, but more than the single pianist who played at most cinemas.
They arrived just in time for the newsreels, which seemed to please Mr. Ellis to no end. The Peace Day celebrations took pride of place: the nation’s armed forces parading past the king, bonfires the length and breadth of the land, and joyous pageants and tea parties in the smallest villages and largest towns. The destruction of Luton’s town hall was not featured, nor were more recent incidents of rioting and unrest in the United States and Canada. As seen through the lens of a newsreel editor, the world was a marvelously untroubled, calm, and united place.
The pictures themselves, though terribly silly, were very entertaining. The first was a paper-thin romp entitled The Irresistible Flapper, in which a wild young thing came to the rescue of her sister, and whose eponymous heroine bore an unfortunate resemblance to Norma. The second was The Artistic Temperament, and from what Charlotte could discern, for the plot was never very clear, it told the story of a young woman who rejected a rich nobleman, took up the violin, and married a poor artist.
She was beginning to yawn, the sort of huge yawns that were almost impossible to stifle, when Mr. Ellis turned to her and, grinning, bent his head to whisper in her ear.
“Have you had enough of this?”
“Yes, please.”
He took her arm as they left, likely only to guide her through the darkened cinema, although he didn’t let her go as they began the walk back to Huskisson Street.
“I wonder if perhaps we ought to have risked the Philharmonic instead,” he said. “Those films were absolute nonsense.”
“Perhaps, but I enjoyed them. I enjoyed every minute.”
It was true. The films had been ridiculous, but the newsreels had been interesting, and their meal and conversation beforehand had been lovely. He was lovely, she realized suddenly. He was a thoroughly decent, intelligent, morally upstanding, right-minded man. So why wasn’t her pulse racing? Why were her palms not damp in anticipation of the moment he would say good night to her?
They walked in silence, her arm tucked in his, the streets so quiet that it seemed as if Liverpool itself, in its very stillness, were holding its breath. It was late, of course, and most people were abed by now. She couldn’t recall the last time she had been out so late during the week.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “I mean, that is, thank you for tonight. I very much enjoyed your company, Mr. Ellis.”
“Isn’t it about time you called me John?”
“John, then. Thank you.”
“Thank you, Charlotte.”
“Shall you take the train home? Are they still running?”
“Not at this hour. But I can find a taxi at the station. Remember what I said about the police striking. It could happen any day now, so do your best to stay alert and aware.”
“I will. Good night, then.”
“Good night.”
She let herself in, listened for his departing footsteps, switched off the hall light, and got ready for bed. She slept poorly, waking again and again, her dreams invaded by another man, the wrong man, a man with a crooked smile and a thousand-yard stare and a beguiling voice that beckoned her so sweetly, so enticingly, but faded to hollow echoes whenever she approached.
She woke with a start at dawn, sunlight streaming in through curtains left half open the night before. It promised to be a beautiful day, but as she lay in bed, thinking of the hours to come, Charlotte couldn’t shake a feeling of unease, of dread, even. The air in her room was heavy and close, and it had a scent to it—nothing tangible, nothing she could attach to a thing or place or even a memory, but it was there, lingering at the borders of her waking mind.
It smelled like a storm. Just like those summer storms that come on quickly, charge the air, and leave one feeling headachy and dull. That was it. A storm was coming, one that had nothing to do with the weather, nothing at all, and she was powerless to do anything, apart from cower and tremble and wait for it to unleash its fury on them all.
Chapter 16
All day long, mindful of what John had told her the night before, Charlotte was on her guard, alert to even the slightest noise from the street, the merest hint that all was not well. At lunchtime she ventured out, walking up to Princes Avenue and back, but could discern nothing out of the ordinary. August the first, as far as she could see, was a perfectly ordinary day.
She was at her desk when Gladys came to her door, her face pale with worry.
“I’m sorry to bother you, Miss Brown, but Constable Johnson is here. He asked for Miss Rathbone, but as she’s away in London I thought . . .”
“Of course. I’ll come straight out.”
Constable Johnson was their local bobby, a fixture of the neighborhood for as long as anyone could recall, and his homely, earnest face was normally the picture of solid reassurance. Today he was sweating and anxious, his demeanor so out of sorts that Charlotte’s heart sank into her boots.
“Good afternoon, Constable Johnson. May I help you? I’m afraid Miss Rathbone is in London for the next few days.”
“Are you aware of the strike action taking place, Miss Brown?”
“Taking place? So it’s happening?”
“It is. I won’t be leaving my post, but I can’t say the same for many of my fellow constables. The thing is, Miss Brown . . . it’s spreading. At first it was only a few districts, but the strikers are going from station to station now. Soon the looting will start up, as sure as night follows day. I fear it won’t be safe for you and the other ladies to stay on here.”
“I see.”
“It’d be best if you all went home, and stayed home until it’s blown over. Will you do that for me? I’ll keep an eye on the premises as best I can.”
“Is there anything we should do before we go? Board up the windows, that sort of thing?”
“I don’t think there’s time for that, but you might want to hide anything valuable. The typewriters, and the telephone, too, if it can be unhooked from the wall. They’ll be the first things to go if anyone does break in.”
“Very well. We’ll take care of things here and be gone within the hour.”
“Thank you, Miss Brown.”
“Thank you, Constable. Please have a care for your own safety.”
As soon as he had let himself out, she turned to Gladys and asked her to gather everyone in the reception area. They hadn’t any time to spare.
“Constable Johnson has just advised me that a large proportion of the city police has gone on strike. He’s asked us to secure the office and go home. I will telephone Miss Rathbone in London, to advise her what is happening, but in the meantime I need you to take the typewriters to the cellar and conceal them as best you can. If you come across anything else of value, please hide it, too.”
“Is it safe to be out in the streets?” asked Bessie, the youngest of the typists.
“It is, otherwise Constable Johnson would have told us to stay put. But not for long, I think. Hurry, everyone.”
Knowing time was of the essence, Charlotte went to Miss Rathbone’s office and picked up the earpiece of the telephone on her employer’s desk.
“Operator.”
“Hello. I’d like to place a call to London, to Whitehall 4—”
“I’m very sorry, madam, but all the lines to London are engaged. Shall I ring back once a line becomes free?”
She hadn’t the time to wait . . . what should she do? “Are the local exchanges available?”
“Yes, madam. What number would you like?”
“Central 331.”
It took several minutes for her call to be transferred from the Herald’s front desk to John’s office, minutes in which she grew steadily shakier and more anxious.
“John Ellis.”
“Mr. Ellis—John. It’s Charlotte.”
“Tell me you’re not still at work.”
“Only for a few more minutes. Constable Johnson came around and told us we need to go home. Will we be safe?”
“Yes, but not for long. As soon as the sun goes down the remaining police won’t be able to keep a lid on this. You need to get home as quick as you can.”
“I will. I wonder—I tried to ring Miss Rathbone at her flat in London, but the lines are all busy. Could I trouble you to—”
“We’ve a telegraph here at the paper. I’ll send one to her now.”
“Thank you so much.”
“Lock up the office, and be on your way home.”
They said good-bye, but as soon as she replaced the earpiece the telephone trilled out an incoming call.
“Hello, Miss Eleanor Rathbone’s office. Charlotte Brown speaking.”
“Charlotte, it’s Rosie. You’ve heard?”
“Yes. We’re locking up the office now. What about you?”
“I’ll stay at the hospital. We’ve a set of high gates to keep out any rioters, and our watchmen will keep us safe. Don’t worry about me.”
“I’ll tell the misses.”
“Thank you. Will you ring up Norma and Meg and make sure they know to go home?”
“I will. I’m not sure if there’s a telephone at Meg’s shop. But it’s not that far away. I’ll see that she comes home with me.”
“Good. Stay safe and I’ll see you when all of this settles down.”
Charlotte placed one last call, this time to Norma’s workplace.
“Good afternoon, Peterson Brothers Shipping, Miss Barnes speaking.”
“Norma, it’s Charlotte. You’ve heard about the strike.”
“Just now. The men in the warehouse are running around as if they expect the Germans to invade.”
“How are you getting home? You are leaving work, aren’t you?”
“Yes, yes. Mr. Peterson is giving me a lift back to the house. I’ll be home for supper. Promise.”
They rang off. Charlotte found the spare key to Miss Rathbone’s office in the top drawer of the desk, locked the door behind her, and slipped the key back under the door.
It wasn’t much, but it might deter someone from investigating further.
The typewriters had been stowed away: hidden under old crates in the cellar, Mabel informed her, and the women were all ready to go. Charlotte fetched her handbag, switched off the last of the lights, and locked up after everyone else had left.
She and Mabel walked north to Upper Parliament, at which point her friend headed east, to catch the tram to her home in Wavertree, and Charlotte continued along to Lord Street, where Meg worked.
The proprietor of À La Mode Chapeaux, Mr. Timmins, was standing on the doorstep as she approached, his demeanor that of a man waiting for the tumbrel. As Charlotte had never visited the shop before, she introduced herself before asking for Meg.
“The constable who patrols the neighborhood around my office was very insistent that we all go home, so I thought I would see if you could spare Mrs. Davies.”
“Yes, of course. No one will be buying any hats today. Do you know if all the police are striking?”
“Not all, but enough to leave us in danger overnight. Are you taking any precautions with the shop?”
“We’ve locked away all the stock in the attics, and cleared out the workrooms upstairs.”
“Were you going to cover the picture window? One brick and they’d be in.”
“My son is fetching some wood from home. I hope it will be enough, Miss Brown.”
Meg was reluctant to leave, perhaps worrying that Mr. Timmins would think ill of her, but he was perfectly understanding, promising that he and his son could manage and that she wasn’t to come back until Monday at the earliest, and only then if order had been restored.
“What if it all amounts to nothing?” Meg asked as they made their way home.
“Then we’ll all feel a trifle embarrassed for overreacting. But I don’t think it will blow over. I think the next few days will be very difficult indeed.”
The streets were far from empty, but most of the shops they passed had shut their doors already. The people they passed all had the same look about them, a strained, horribly apprehensive expression, as if they were bracing themselves for a blow. News was spreading, from street to street and block to block, and with it a coverlet of fear and nervous anticipation was descending upon the city. Anything could happen. Anything might happen.
After the War Is Over: A Novel Page 14