Bless ’Em All

by Saddler, Allen

  ‘We could all be dead,’ said Jimmy’s mother.

  She had gone to work the next day as though nothing had happened. After all, it was only a few old birds. They wouldn’t appear on the casualty list.

  When Jimmy got into work the day after, old Maurice told everybody off. Jimmy didn’t understand why. They only went off a bit early because of the air raid. You would have thought they’d deserted from the Army or something.

  ‘We have to keep things running as normal,’ Maurice said. ‘Otherwise the enemy is winning.’ Jimmy couldn’t see how him getting off a bit early was going to effect the course of the war. Anyway, what was old Maurice going to do about it? Report him to Churchill? ‘This country’, continued Maurice, ‘has got its back against the wall. We have lost the battle in France so we can’t lose the battle in England. It’s up to us to keep things going.’

  The battle in France? That must have been when all those soldiers set out in rowing boats across the Channel. He’d seen it on the newsreels. All dirty, wet soldiers grinning and giving the V-for-victory sign with two fingers. His dad said that his paper had run an extra edition. He did an extra shift and got paid so much that he took him and his mother to a Corner House brasserie, where they ate a joyless meal – that Mum said she could have done at home for much less money – while a troupe of gypsies played violins and things. Was that when they lost the battle of France? France, he knew, wasn’t far away. They said that you could see France from Dover – or was it Clacton?

  The newsreels were full of soldiers anyway. They were always doing something – running, firing guns, marching, singing, painting their faces to look like trees. It was a grown-up game. There were people down his street who had had people called up. They all got drunk the night before they went. One reappeared in a light-blue suit, with one of his legs missing. He wasn’t giving the V-sign; he was holding on to his crutches. Did the people who wrote the Gem and the Magnet know there was a war on? They never mentioned it. There were other things like War Stories and Battlefield, but they were boring. Who wanted to read about the war?

  He went on his round, collecting books: Longman’s, Nelson’s, Charles Letts for diaries, SPCK, Hodder’s. Everyone was talking about the bombs. Apparently there had been a right packet in the East End. Houses had been blown up and factories and warehouses set on fire. A place where they kept brandy and whisky had burnt down, and much of the gear was taken, unofficially, into the safe keeping of peoples’ homes. Bottles were exchanging hands all over. He saw one collector put a bottle in his sack.

  At Hodder’s he indulged in his embarrassment of the girl at the trade counter, once again staring at her until she blushed. She had pale copper-coloured hair and a pale face and, that particular morning, red eyes, and she reacted angrily to his obvious scrutiny. ‘Who are you glinting at?’

  ‘Glinting?’ he said. ‘Glinting?’ This came from working in a publishers. They pick up these strange words.

  ‘It’s rude,’ the girl said.

  ‘You been crying?’

  ‘I’ve haven’t,’ she said.

  He looked at her eyes. They were blue, but the rims were red. ‘You have,’ he said.

  The girl looked down. ‘My dog ran away.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he said gently, warming to this show of vulnerability. ‘He’ll come back.’

  ‘He ran off when he heard the bombs. They weren’t far away. He was frightened.’

  ‘So he should have been,’ said Jimmy, echoing his father. ‘My dad’s birds all got burnt. With an incendiary.’

  ‘What birds?’

  ‘Cage birds. Canaries and budgies. He kept them, in a shed in the garden.’

  ‘That’s terrible.’

  ‘Yeah. They were all burnt up.’

  The girl looked up and gave him a cool appraisal. ‘You come here a lot, don’t you?’

  He wanted to say, ‘Yes, I come in to see you’, but he didn’t feel that sure yet. ‘Where do you go dinner time?’ he asked.

  This time the girl didn’t blush but just looked at him with her own cool stare.

  ‘What’s your name?’ he asked, pressing on.

  ‘Helen,’ she said.

  ‘Helen,’ he echoed, as though he was sampling a new sweet. ‘Helen.’

  ‘You don’t have to keep saying it,’ she said crossly.

  He grinned. ‘No. I like it. Helen. What do you do dinner time, Helen?’

  This time she did blush. ‘ABC,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll meet you. One o’clock.’

  He had got to know the other collectors from other firms. They all went into a bookshop in Blackfriars Road for bread and dripping: big doorsteps of beef dripping, never pork, which they would eat with a pint mug of tea. Most of the collectors were older men. Old Maurice knew what he was doing making him do it. If he had a man he would have to pay them a man’s money. Old Maurice was a skinflint and no mistake.

  Jimmy dawdled until half past twelve. Then he rushed into the warehouse and unloaded his sack. Old Maurice was at the other end of a row of shelves. He beckoned him, but Jimmy pretended not to notice. He shouted ‘Jimmy’, but Jimmy cocked a deaf ’un and scooted down the stairs in quick time. He had an important assignment, to meet Helen at the ABC at one o’clock, and a whole army of Maurices weren’t going to stop him.

  He waited outside the tea house – the Aerated Bread Company was a sort of sub-Joe Lyons’, not quite as posh and a bit cheaper – for ten minutes. A workman was piling sandbags outside the shop, and the windows had been stuck over with tape.

  He wasn’t sure that she would come. His heart gave a leap when he saw her coming along. She was wearing a smart outdoor coat, dark blue, with fur trimming around the lapels. Her hair wasn’t what you might call ginger, but it was light-copper colour and straight, falling neatly and evenly from a centre parting. He thought she might have applied a bit of makeup to that pale face, but he couldn’t be sure. Surely those lips couldn’t be such a luscious shade of red all by themselves? She was so neat, with neat, short steps. The whole effect of her appearance was like a bunch of ripe cherries, a knickerbocker glory, a fresh cream cake; to Jimmy, she was good enough to eat.

  ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Do you always come here?’

  ‘Mostly,’ she said. ‘Roll and butter and cheese. Cup of tea. Sixpence.’

  ‘Would you like to go somewhere else for a change?’

  ‘I don’t mind,’ she said.

  Walking down Fleet Street with this fabulous girl by his side was like being in the films, the finale of a musical, when after a series of misunderstandings the girl and boy come together and, walking on air, smile brilliantly until ‘The End’ comes up. He was exultant, full of himself. Of course, they shouldn’t be in these dusty streets, they should be down at Brighton or somewhere, eating a plate of cockles together, sitting on the sea wall, sucking ice cream. He would be wearing a blazer and grey flannels like they did in the Magnet, and she would be wearing a nice print dress with flowers on it and smiling at him, like he was the only boy she’s ever wanted to be with. Sod the dog, bugger the birds, bugger the war and bleeding old Churchill. Piss on old Maurice and Green’s. This was the life, with Helen, all neatly packaged, by his side.

  They weaved along until he saw the Milk Bar. That was it. Something new, something smart. He’d never been in before, but he wasn’t going to tell her that.

  ‘Shall we try this place?’ he said, trying to sound casual.

  ‘I don’t know. What’s it like?’

  ‘It’s milk, you know. Different flavours,’ he said, after rapidly scanning the menu. They went in and sat on the high stools, like the bar of a Hollywood soda fountain they had often seen in American college films, with hot-eyed girls and brash boys acting the fool.

  ‘What you going to have?’ he said, in a worldly way. ‘Banana, raspberry, blackcurrant?’

  ‘What? Milk?’ she said, seemingly a bit bewildered at the turn of events.

  ‘We can go somewhere else,�
�� he said quickly.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘This is all right.’

  The whole place was made of chrome and glass. You could see people walking by, peering in. It was like being in a shop window. It wasn’t what he’d wanted. He wanted a dark alcove, not this exposure.

  ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s go somewhere else.’ So they left, but not before Jimmy had seen old Maurice in a big glass mirror at the back of the counter talking to a young woman Jimmy had never seen before. She was looking at old Maurice as if he was something marvellous, and the silly old sod seemed to be enjoying himself. Christ, that was something: old Maurice smiling. Enough to cause a crack in the ceiling.

  Jimmy led Helen through a maze of winding courts until he found a small teashop. It was quiet and had a dark interior. They sat down. The tea was in little teapots that you poured out yourself. There were buns and biscuits. They settled in and began to talk.

  ‘Do you go to the pictures?’ Jimmy asked.

  ‘Sometimes,’ the girl said. ‘Depends what’s on.’

  ‘There’s a Laurel and Hardy on this week,’ he said. ‘I reckon I’ll go on Saturday.’

  ‘They’re just silly,’ Helen said, disparagingly. Jimmy felt a numbing feeling. She was wonderful to look at, but was it possible that she had no sense of humour? Laurel and Hardy were wonderful, but maybe girls couldn’t see that they were acting.

  ‘What do you like?’ he said.

  Helen stirred her tea, pouting a little with those delicious lips. ‘Well, I like a good story. Something that could really happen.’ This was feet-on-the-ground stuff. What about fantasy, larking around and romance?

  ‘Who’s your favourite film star?’

  ‘I like Norma Shearer,’ said Helen. ‘She’s sensible.’

  ‘She is,’ Jimmy agreed, but his heart was sinking. Who wanted to be sensible? ‘What about men?’

  ‘Robert Taylor.’

  Ah. That was better. The baby-faced, good-looking Taylor was nearly in the realms of fantasy and certainly in the realms of romance.

  ‘You want to come with me Saturday?’ Helen looked down. Had he rushed it a bit? Too quick? ‘Doesn’t matter about Saturday. Friday will do.’ Now she was blushing again. It didn’t take much to get her going. He hadn’t said anything. Was it the way he said it? Was it because he had said Friday, which meant going in the evening, whereas Saturday was a daytime meet? Was it because she knew what he was thinking, imagining her small scarcely formed body quite naked, with the little bumps culminating in pips, and the mysterious triangle of hair between the thighs as he had seen in some of the books at Green’s, catalogued as Medical, and even more graphically in books that Mr Bernard took out called Studies in Art or some such cover-up title? He didn’t mean anything. He was just curious. Was she a mind-reader? What was she thinking?

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said finally. ‘I’ll have to see.’

  She had been to Clark’s College for shorthand and typing. She still went in the evening. She wasn’t good enough yet to do it at work. She wanted to be a secretary. This was bad news for Jimmy, who knew that a secretary would be out of his range. She liked working at Hodder’s, especially when some of the authors came in. ‘It must be wonderful,’ she said, ‘being an author.’

  ‘I’m going into the print,’ he said. ‘My dad’s getting me in.’

  On the way back he took her arm, and she didn’t seem to mind. ‘See you on Saturday.’ She looked up at him, and he felt somehow powerful. She needed looking after, and he was there to do it. He would gladly accept the responsibility.

  ‘I live miles away from you,’ she said.

  He brushed objections aside with his King Arthur sword. ‘I’ll come over,’ he said, ‘or we can meet half-way.’ She was looking at him intently. She seemed to be searching his face for some truth, something to trust. ‘Tell you what,’ he said. ‘We’ll meet again tomorrow, and then you can tell me how you feel about Saturday.’

  He watched her go into Hodder’s and then walked around Warwick Square, grinning. He was delirious with delight. He’d pulled it off. He’d clicked.

  Maurice wasn’t at all pleased to see his young collector in the Milk Bar. What was the little fool doing in there and with a young girl as well? (There was no denying that Jimmy had the kind of urchin cheek and charm that Maurice had never had and even now envied.) On the other hand, what was he, Maurice, doing in the Milk Bar with a young girl? At least Jimmy was with someone his own age, whereas he was there with a woman young enough to be his daughter. It was all wrong. How had he got into this mess? The fact was that these short meetings with Betty had become of an overriding importance to him, the only time he felt alive. He had rescued her from prostitution, and yet, in a way, she was still in the business. She was being paid for her time. He hired her by the hour. She didn’t see it that way. She was naïve and easily led. That was how she must have got into that ghastly club with that hard-faced bitch. Betty was a girl who could easily be taken advantage of. Is that what he was doing? Would she ever be of use in the business? That was doubtful. It wasn’t just her lack of education, but her general lack of awareness. She was like a child, full of pretensions, dreams and petty snobberies. She obviously thought of him as a respectable escort, but why didn’t her husband intervene? Why was he willing to risk his wife’s well-being and safety to a man he had never seen? Was it just the money? She could hardly earn fifty shillings a week so easily elsewhere. He was treating her generously, so why did he feel so guilty? She was good-looking, no doubt of that. There was quite an intense pleasure in just looking at the girl: her perfect oval face, her perfect little ears, her teeth with slight smudges of lipstick on them, her eyes, so innocent and trusting. A girl like Betty ought not to be out on her own – and yet she had no idea that her very presence was a provocation. Perhaps he ought to bring the arrangement to an end. Where was it going after all?

  ‘There was a fire in the next street,’ she said. ‘Incendiary bomb.’

  ‘Did it do much damage?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’ Even her small talk was shallow: no depth in anything she said. She was very good at listening, however. When he held forth about books her eyes shone as though he was a wizard, imparting some secret formula.

  ‘Have you finished the stocktaking?’ she asked, innocently. He knew what she meant. The mythical stocktaking was the reason why he hadn’t been able to take her to the warehouse.

  ‘Not quite,’ he said uneasily. He was lying, and it didn’t sit easily on his conscience. Why didn’t he want to show her the ware – house? He didn’t want to because there were other people there. Not the staff so much, they could mind their own business, but Bernard, who dropped in at all different times. He might see her and know where she came from and so draw his own conclusions. Bernard wouldn’t tell Clare – well, Bernard hardly ever saw Clare – but it would give Bernard a hold over him, give him a naughty secret that would affect his position in the business.

  And Maurice couldn’t have that, not at any price.

  9

  BUNTY was all of a tizz. Tim had told her mother – who had conveyed the message by way of hand signs and looks – that Bunty was not to go out any more.

  When the message got through she stuck her tongue out at Tim and patted his face, lightly, in the way that someone might reprove a slightly fractious but not particularly naughty child.

  ‘You’re making her a prisoner,’ said Bunty’s mother.

  ‘I know,’ said Tim grimly. ‘I’m doing it for her own good.’ He had been brooding about the situation for a week or more. It wasn’t to do with jealousy; it was to do with injured pride. Somebody had been knocking his wife about. If anyone was going to set about Bunty it would be him. Christ, she gave him enough reason. Always showing herself off, giving blokes the eye. He knew she couldn’t help it. He knew, in some dim recess of his mind, that desirability and availability were the props that kept her going, her way of fighting back from her disability. She may n
ot be able to contribute to a conversation, she couldn’t keep up with the news on the wireless, but in the vital matter of life she was supreme. Men fancied her, they lusted after her, she was important in an important way. And Tim knew this, and, although he didn’t like the position it put him in, he could see that Bunty had a point. Nevertheless, he wasn’t prepared to be made a fool of. He had his pride.

  But Tim couldn’t be around all day. He had his job to see to. He was having special training about linking up fire-brigade hosepipes so that water could be transported right across London, from the pond on Clapham Common to Westminster and maybe the City. It was called Operation Linkage, and it was important that he understood what to do. In fact, there was little ordinary work to do, as all connections, faults and leaks had taken a back seat to the overriding importance of Operation Linkage. The truth was that there weren’t enough water supplies in the City to deal with fires, and, if they occurred, there would quickly be a shortage. Tim quite liked his new role. He might never get called up, but he was doing something. At the same time he couldn’t have these blokes making free with his wife. Maybe her affliction had sent her a bit loopy, but he felt he ought to exercise some control.

  All that morning he contrived to organize a route that would lead him past the house or at least to the corner of the road, where he could take a long view of the comings and goings at number 77. He cycled around, making sure he was at least in the area. He knew that the time Bunty went out was around lunchtime. From half-past twelve to two o’clock he was sitting on his bike at the end of the road like a sentry waiting for an attack.

  Eventually, he saw a car pull up. Nobody got out to knock at the door, but Bunty came out, as if to a prearranged signal, and got in. The car drove off, and Tim found himself following on his bike. It was all right in the side street, where he could follow at a safe distance, but when the car turned into the main road it sped away from him, and, even pedalling furiously, he lost sight of it in a maze of traffic. If the lights hadn’t turned red he would have lost it. He weaved his way between the stationary vehicles until he saw the car, a big grey affair, a Humber, set off as the lights changed. Then it was speeding away from him. Top speed on his heavy service-bike was about twelve miles an hour, so he soon got left behind again.