by David Nobbs
Henry was frightened of his father, but he didn’t want him to go off to the war. For one thing, his mother didn’t want him to, and Henry loved his mother. For another thing, all change frightened him.
For many weeks the atmosphere in the terrace house had been tense. Production of brawn, that local barometer of stress, had increased dramatically. Now the moment had come. The night was stifling. Her Mother had gone to bed early, making a point of leaving Ezra and Ada alone together on their last night, displaying her tact so coyly that it became tactlessness. Henry could hear her snores from the front bedroom. He slept in his parents’ room. There was barely room for the two beds. Normally he slept soundly, and didn’t hear them come to bed.
That night it seemed to him that they would never come to bed. He couldn’t bear it alone any longer. He would go downstairs, and tell them that he couldn’t sleep.
As he got to the top of the stairs, he could hear their low voices, the hum of grown-up night-talk, from which he was always excluded. He knew straight away that they were talking about him, and he decided that he must hear what they were saying.
He crept carefully down the bare, narrow staircase. His legs were still too little to miss out a step. He trod softly on the seventh stair, which creaked, and on the ninth, which groaned.
Their voices continued. They hadn’t heard him.
He pressed himself against the wall and listened.
‘Take him to Kate’s,’ his father was saying. ‘Get him away from here.’
‘Become evacuees, does tha mean?’
‘Not evacuees, mother. It’s not evacuees, isn’t staying wi’ relations. I want to know he’s safe, mother. In front line, fighting Jerry, I want to know our kid’s safe.’
Conflicting emotions gripped Henry. It was nice to know that you were talked about when you weren’t there. It provided reassuring evidence that you existed. It provided reassuring evidence that you were important to folk. But it was disturbing to hear your destination being discussed as if you were a parcel. It brought home to you how powerless you were. And it was worrying to learn of the prospect of massive change.
‘We won’t be any safer up there if there’s an invasion,’ she said.
‘Course you would,’ said Ezra. ‘And there won’t be one, any road.’
‘Mother reckons it’s imminent.’
‘That’s what I say. There won’t be one. There’ll be bombing, though.’
‘They won’t bomb civilians.’
‘We won’t. We’ve said we won’t. They will. They’re ruthless killers. Look at London.’
‘London’s London. They won’t bomb us.’
‘They’ll bomb steelworks, mother. They’ll bomb t’ canal and railway. They’ll try and cripple t’ munitions industry and t’ lines of communication. That’s what Reg Hammond reckons, any road. There’ll be stray bombs, Ada. There’s forced to be. It isn’t pin-point accuracy, isn’t aerial bombardment.’
‘Reg Hammond!’ she said. ‘Tha doesn’t want to believe all he says. Him at chippy reckons he’s a fifth columnist.’
‘Him at chippy! Portions he serves, I reckon he’s the fifth columnist. Go, Ada. It’s best.’
‘Will she want us?’
‘Course she will. She likes having folk around her.’
‘What about him?’
‘He’s all right.’
‘What about t’ house?’
‘Evacuees can live here.’
‘Evacuees?’
‘Evacuees.’
‘Why should evacuees want to live here?’
‘Because it’s safer.’
‘So why are we going?’
‘Evacuees come from London and Liverpool and Channel Isles and that, because it’s safer here. We go to Kate’s because it’s safer still there. That’s t’ principle of evacuation, mother. That’s how it works.’
Henry was in a quandary. He wasn’t interested in the finer points of evacuation. His mind was whirling with the terrible possibility that he was going into the unknown, to Kates, wherever that was. He wanted to rush in and ask them about it, to beg them not to go. But that would reveal that he had been spying. He had done that once, and punishment had resulted.
‘Ada?’
His father’s tone of voice was different, softer.
‘I’ve gorra headache.’
‘Headache? It’s me last night. I may never come back.’
‘Ezra! Don’t say that.’
‘It’s a possibility, mother. It’s got to be faced.’
‘I’m not making excuses, father. I have gorra headache.’
Henry decided to go back to bed. This business about headaches was boring.
‘Is it a bad headache?’
‘It’s not that bad.’
‘It’s me last night, mother.’
‘Go on up. I’ll just make t’ door.’
Up? His father was coming upstairs? Henry had begun to creep carefully up the stairs. Now he increased his pace. The stair which groaned groaned. The stair which creaked creaked. He prayed that the bedroom door wouldn’t squeak. It didn’t.
He snuggled down into the dark, warm womb of his bed. He pulled the bedclothes over his head. The bed smelt pleasantly of himself. It was dark, warm and wonderful down there. If only he could stay there for ever.
He heard his father come upstairs. He heard the groan and the creak of the two errant steps. He pretended to be asleep. It was hard work pretending to be asleep, especially when your head was whirring with thoughts and worries. Perhaps if he pretended to be asleep hard enough he would find that he was asleep, except that you couldn’t find that you were asleep, because when you were asleep you were always asleep, so you never knew you were asleep.
He heard his mother’s heavier tread. The errant steps protested loudly. The house shook. He breathed deeply, rhythmically. He heard them getting into bed. He essayed a light snore. Their bed-springs were creaking. His father was grunting. His mother was groaning. What on earth was going on?
His father was strangling his mother!
He leapt bravely from his womb and rushed over to the writhing, twisting couple. His mother was putting up brave resistance, but his father’s strength belied his size, and she was definitely going under.
He grabbed his father with his frantic, podgy arms.
‘Stop it! Stop it, dad! Give over!’ he screamed. ‘Don’t do that to mam.’
‘Hell’s bells,’ said his father. ‘Hell’s bells, Henry.’
They saw his father off at Thurmarsh (Midland Road) Station. The platform was crowded. Henry was frightened when the train roared in. It was packed. There were many soldiers. Ezra couldn’t find a seat.
Henry wasn’t so frightened as the train chugged out. All along the train, men with fixed smiles leant out of the windows and waved. On the platform, little groups of relations clutched each other helplessly. His dad waved until he was just a speck among many specks waving, and then the last carriage disappeared round the corner of the carriage sheds, and they walked away through the cruel August sunlight. Ada walked in the middle, with Her Mother on her left and Henry on her right. It was the first time that Henry had ever been exposed on one of life’s flanks, the first time he had been required to give support, not receive it. He was tiny, and solemn, and frightened, as they waited for the tram home.
When they got home, Ada cried very briefly, and then busied herself mightily about her tasks. She gave him an extra portion of brawn as a treat. He asked the question that he could not contain within himself.
‘Where’s Kates?’ he said.
‘Kate’s?’
‘Aye. Where’s Kates?’
‘I’ve never heard of it,’ she said.
‘There’s no such place,’ said Her Mother.
‘Only Kate’s I know is your Great Aunt Kate’s,’ said Ada. Her mouth dropped open. ‘Was tha listening last night?’
‘No,’ he said. Too late he added, ‘What to?’
‘Kate’s our Ez
ra’s father’s sister,’ said Ada. ‘She married a farmer. They live on a lovely farm with cows and sheep and green hills all around. It’s a grand life there. Come on, get thesen agate of that brawn. Was tha standing there, on t’ stairs?’
Henry nodded miserably.
Ada raised her cup of tea to her lips, then lowered it without drinking.
‘Happen it’s best out,’ she said. ‘Ezra made me promise.’
‘Promise what?’ said Her Mother. ‘Promise what, Ada?’
Ada’s eyes avoided Her Mother’s.
‘To take Henry to Kate’s.’
‘To take Henry to Kate’s? For how long?’
‘Just for t’ duration.’
‘Just for t’ duration?’
‘I reckon I’ve got me parrot back again.’
‘I don’t want to go to Kate’s,’ said Henry. ‘I ’ate Kate.’
‘What about me?’ said Her Mother. ‘Did tha forget about me, or what?’
‘Tha’ll come wi’ us,’ said Ada. ‘Tha lives wi’ us, doesn’t tha?’
‘I’m not going there,’ said Her Mother. ‘I’ve lived all me life in Thurmarsh. I can’t be doing wi’ countryside, me.’
‘It’s a right nice place, mother. There’s lovely hills and that.’
‘Hills? They’re nobbut lumps of muck. I’ll go to our Leonard’s. Now he’s working.’
‘Mother!’
‘I’m not upset,’ said Her Mother. ‘I’m not hurt. T’ lad comes first, and that’s as it should be. I’ve had my life.’ She sighed, thinking about it. ‘It wouldn’t matter if a bomb fell on my napper tomorrow. Nobody’d care. I wouldn’t blame them. It’s natural when tha’s getting old.’
‘Mother!’
‘If Hitler doesn’t oblige, I’ll go and live wi’ Leonard. It’s all settled.’
‘I feel awful now,’ said Ada.
‘Nay, luv, don’t take on,’ said Her Mother. ‘I don’t want to upset thee, not when tha’s so upset. Countryside’s safest for youngsters. I don’t like t’ countryside. Our Leonard’s my son, and it’s about time I lived wi’ ’im. Let’s leave it at that.’
‘Well what about our Doris? She’s got more room than Leonard.’
‘I wouldn’t impose on her.’
‘If anyone has thee, it should be Doris.’
‘I’d never axe our Doris for owt. I wouldn’t demean mesen.’
Ada took a sip of tea.
‘I don’t like to see Doris getting away wi’ it,’ she said.
‘Not doing her stint at putting up wi’ me, does tha mean?’ said Her Mother. ‘Tha makes me sound like an air raid, not her mother.’
‘I didn’t mean that,’ said Ada. ‘I just meant Doris allus wriggles out of doing her bit.’
‘I’m her bit now, am I? I’m summat unpleasant has to be undergone in line of duty, for t’ war effort.’
‘I don’t want to go to Kate’s,’ said Henry. ‘I ’ate Kate.’
‘Mother!’ said Ada, almost sobbing. ‘I just know what Doris’ll do. She’ll wait till tha’s settled wi’ Leonard, then say, “You should have asked to come to us. We’d have been happy to have you, wouldn’t we, Teddy?”’
Henry wondered if he had become invisible and inaudible at the same time. He made another plea for attention.
‘I won’t go,’ he said. ‘I won’t go.’
‘It’s all settled. I’m not going to Doris,’ said Her Mother. She took a piece of bread, and spread an ostentatiously thin scraping of margarine on it. She managed to make the gesture into a criticism of Teddy and Doris’s whole lifestyle. This is my final word on the subject, said her eloquent knife.
Henry tried to be good, and reconcile himself to going to Kate’s. He tried to support his mother, helping her scour the steps with the donkey stone, trying to carry the aspidistra out when it rained and everybody took their aspidistras out to stand on the causer edge. He went with her to the corner shop, holding her hand to reassure her. Her at the corner shop refused to take a slurpy halfpenny, because she couldn’t see Britannia. Ada said, ‘Some folk don’t know there’s a war on,’ and almost cried, and Henry squeezed her hand.
They grew used to life without Ezra. For a week, Ada couldn’t bring herself to mention him to Henry, for fear that she’d break down. Then she broached the subject that could not be avoided.
‘Come here, Henry,’ she said gently.
It was afternoon. Four pairs of stockings were drying on the clothes-horse in front of the range. Three of the stockings were laddered. Her Mother was over at Leonard’s, discussing her room.
‘That night, our Ezra’s last night, upstairs,’ she said. ‘He wasn’t trying to strangle me.’
She had to tell him that much, in fairness to Ezra.
‘What were he doing, mam?’
She sighed. She’d known he’d ask it, of course. Why not describe the act in detail? He’d be as bored as he was bemused. He’d think it ridiculous. He’d have a point. But no, she couldn’t tell him.
‘Summat men do to women when they’re grown up. Summat that happen tha’ll do thysen one day.’
‘What?’
‘That’s enough now. I just wanted tha to know that thy dad’s a good man. He’s gone to fight t’ war so we can be safe.’
‘What’ll I do one day, mam?’
‘We’ll see.’
When Her Mother returned, she was well pleased with the room she had been allotted. ‘It faces north, but it’s got a nice outlook,’ she said. ‘I said to our Leonard, “It’ll do, but tha can get shut of yon alablaster bust.” He said, “That’s Lord Hawke.” I said, “I don’t care if it’s Lord Muck. It’s going.” He said, “Aye, but Lord Hawke were doyen of Yorkshire cricket.” I said, “Aye, and he’ll be doyen of bloody dustbin an’ all in a minute. Get shut of him or I will.”’
German bombers blitzed London and the Midlands. Allied bombers carried out night raids on German towns. There were fierce dog-fights in the skies over south-east England. The railings in front of the Georgian town houses behind the Alderman Chandler Memorial Park were ripped down and sent to join the war. Her Mother went to live with Leonard. ‘It’s a bit of a squeeze,’ she said, ‘but they can cope. She’s quite nice when tha gets to know her. Me room faces north, but how much sun do we have any road? It’ll be nice to have an inside toilet for a change, even if it has got an alablaster bust of Lord Hawke in it. So don’t feel badly about it, Ada. It’s my choice. I don’t feel unwanted. I don’t feel neglected.’
Their belongings were all packed and standing by the door of the little house. Uncle Teddy and Auntie Doris had insisted that everything be ready by the time they arrived.
‘They said they’d be here early doors,’ said Ada. ‘Some folk have a funny idea of early doors.’
Soon there would be evacuees in the house. Moving had proved no problem. Him at corner shop didn’t mind where his rent came from, provided it came.
Henry wanted to cry, but he was determined not to.
Uncle Teddy and Auntie Doris arrived at last.
‘Cup of tea?’ enquired Ada.
‘No, no,’ said Uncle Teddy hastily, and then he tried to soften the refusal with explanation. ‘We’ve a long way to go, and there’s the blackout.’
‘I wish mother’d asked to come to us,’ said Auntie Doris. ‘We’d have been happy to have her, wouldn’t we, Teddy?’
‘Is this all there is?’ said Uncle Teddy, surveying their meagre baggage.
‘Teddy!’ said Auntie Doris.
‘Well there’s not much, to say they’re going for the duration,’ said Uncle Teddy.
‘Tact,’ mouthed Auntie Doris.
‘Tact?’ said Uncle Teddy.
‘Don’t rub it in that some folk haven’t got as much as others,’ hissed Auntie Doris, who always made things worse by protesting about them.
‘Oh. Right,’ said Uncle Teddy. ‘Travelling light, eh? That’s the ticket. The rest’ll be quite safe here.’
There was ample
room for their luggage in the boot of the Armstrong-Siddeley ‘Twelve Plus’ Four-Light Saloon De Luxe.
And then Henry knew that he couldn’t go.
‘Don’t want to go,’ he whimpered.
Uncle Teddy gave Ada a sharp glance.
‘It’s nice there, Henry,’ said Ada.
‘I ’ate Kate,’ said Henry.
‘Don’t be silly. Tha’s never met her,’ said Ada.
Henry began to scream.
‘We’ll be in the car,’ said Uncle Teddy grimly. ‘Come on, Doris.’
Henry screamed and screamed and screamed. At first he screamed because he was terrified of leaving this cobbled, terraced, canal-side womb. Then he screamed because he was upset with himself for giving way to his fear. Then he screamed because he was angry with life because he was a helpless thing about which other people made decisions, and he had no choice about being put into positions where he had to scream. Then he was empty of fear and anger and shame, and he screamed because he couldn’t think of a way of stopping screaming without looking ridiculous.
In the end he stopped out of sheer exhaustion.
Ada closed the door for the last time, and led Henry to the waiting car. The top half of the headlights had been blacked out.
‘I thought it best if we were out of the road,’ said Uncle Teddy. ‘I thought it might get it over with quicker if the performance was mainly for our benefit.’
‘It wasn’t a performance,’ said Ada.
‘Now you’ve not forgotten anything, have you?’ said Uncle Teddy. ‘We’re late. We’ve been delayed. I’m not turning back.’
‘He never turns back,’ said Auntie Doris, whose perfume filled the car.
‘I’ve not forgotten owt,’ said Ada.
Uncle Teddy handed Ada a paper bag.
‘In case he’s carsick,’ he explained.
‘You didn’t have to say what it’s for. It’s obvious. You could just have handed it to her. You’ve made things worse,’ said Auntie Doris, who always made things worse by protesting about them. ‘You’ve put the idea of being carsick into his head.’