Bernard could see that this would lead to her being unconscious before the action started. ‘We’ll take a bottle with us,’ he said.
‘Why?’ said Gloria. ‘Are we going already?’
He got her outside and soon found a taxi. ‘What’s the address?’
‘Oh. It’s Prince of Wales Gardens,’ she said. ‘Over Battersea Bridge. Are you sure you want to go all that way?’
‘I’ve got to see you home,’ he said. Where else, for Christ’s sake? If he took her to Ealing she might fall in love with his house, and anyway he didn’t want her to know where he lived. So they went along in the taxi, and on the way the lady began to get amorous.
‘Are you married?’ she murmured. ‘It doesn’t matter. Just interested.’ He didn’t reply, and she said, ‘I see.’
‘You don’t see anything,’ he said fiercely. ‘I’ve had a bloody awful day. My business has become a bomb site. I’ve been trying to regroup, and it’s not been easy. I don’t know whether I’m on my head or my arse.’
‘Of course, darling. I understand.’
They reached the outside of a building that bowed its way around a corner, with a Regency façade, which, in its rakish aspect, looked promising. It was a building that, over at least a century of existence, could be housing a thousand secrets.
Gloria produced a torch from her handbag. ‘You’ll have to follow me,’ she whispered. ‘There’s no black-out in the hall.’ They sneaked up the staircase like a pair of cat burglars, and along a corridor to her flat. When they got inside, she switched a light on. It was shaded so he couldn’t see beyond the pool of light. When his eyes became accustomed to the dim surroundings he took in the general ambience of the place, which was plush and faintly oriental, with framed playbills on the walls for Hay Fever and A Bill of Divorcement. This wasn’t exactly a flat for daily living; it was a flat for late-night gatherings, after-show conferences, when groups of actors posed with cocktail glasses, picking each others’ performances to pieces in clouds of Turkish-cigarette smoke while dance music played on the wireless. During the day, this place would be dead, but at night it could be electric.
Gloria switched the light on in the windowless kitchen. There were spirit bottles in the kitchen cabinet. She poured two whiskies.
‘Somebody gave me this,’ she said, offering him a glass with a lopsided smile. An actress, he thought. Not a natural bone in her body. Always doing a turn. What was underneath? Where did she really come from?
‘Do you want to, er, wash, darling? That’s the bathroom.’
He experienced a thumping in his head. He had felt this once before, when he was with that tart Bunty. She didn’t take a blind bit of notice of anything he said, and he got into a red rage with her. There was a hard, steel band around his skull, and it was getting tighter. He ought to lie down, try to relax. He found a sofa and sprawled on it.
‘Is that going to be all right for you, darling?’ she said archly.
‘Just a minute,’ he said. ‘I need to collect myself.’ The band around his head was squeezing ever harder. If it got any worse he would scream. He heard the air-raid siren start up its wail.
‘What do you do?’ he said. ‘Go downstairs?’
‘No,’ said Gloria softly. ‘I just go to bed. What do you do?’ She was standing at the edge of the pool of light. He noticed that she had put on a dressing-gown. He put out a hand and she came towards him. She knelt in front of him and put her head on his lap.
‘This is awful,’ she said.
‘What is?’ he said.
‘You see, I quite like you, but the fact is that I’m awfully short of the readies.’
‘What?’
‘It’s best to be clear before we start, isn’t it? Saves any unpleasantness afterwards. I’m sorry, but there’s no work, you see.’ She stood up and opened the dressing-gown. She was quite thin, he noticed, and very white, a sort of porcelain figure, very smooth, very delicate. The request for money took him by surprise. He’d often paid before, but somehow he hadn’t expected it, not at this stage. Maybe a touch afterwards, but a commercial proposition from someone whom he had thought of as above such crudities shook him.
‘How much?’ he said thickly.
‘Oh, darling, no need to be sordid. I’ll leave that to you. I am sure you’ll be suitably generous. Now then, do you want to go into the bed or are you happy on the sofa?’
Bernard’s mind raced up crafty nooks and crevices. This Gloria wasn’t as clever as she thought. Many of the women he had been with had wanted the money in advance. After all, when it was over how could you guarantee that the client would pay up? Gloria was acting cool, acting the posh prostitute, but she couldn’t have had much experience.
‘It’s all right here,’ he said. She slipped off the dressing-gown and sat beside him. He had never seen such a piece of cool cheek before. It was wild and daring but somehow civilized; his desires were taken as a matter of course, as they would be in many places in the world. There was nothing to be ashamed of in pure animal instincts. It was only natural, and everybody knew it.
‘Won’t you get cold?’
‘That’s up to you, darling,’ she said. He stood up and began to loosen his trousers. ‘You’re not tattooed or anything, are you? I can’t stand tattoos.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘Are you?’
She laughed a tinkly laugh. ‘Have you got a … ?’
‘Yes, I’ve got one. Do you want to see it?’
‘Don’t be silly, darling. You know what I mean.’
She spread her body on the sofa with her legs apart, but her head was on one side, looking away, as though she didn’t want to see what was going to happen to the rest of her. Bernard looked at her spreadeagled body with a feeling of immense satisfaction. The haughty bitch was going to get what was coming to her. When it came down to it, she was no better than a woman he could have picked up in the street. He positioned himself and then lunged at her, pushing into her up to the hilt.
‘Oh my God,’ she gasped. ‘You didn’t put a thing on.’ Her head waved from side to side and her body went stiff, as if she was defending herself by retraction. ‘Please,’ she said. ‘I can’t risk it.’
‘Shut up,’ he said and put more strength into his thrusting.
‘Get off,’ she screamed.
He put his hand over her mouth. She was stiff with fright. ‘Think you’re better than me?’ he said. ‘You’re nothing but a common tart.’
In the struggle he thought he must have blacked out. For one moment he thought he had died. She was wriggling energetically, her eyes signalling anger and fright, her hands at his face, her fingernails reaching for his eyes. At the same time the skull-crushing band around his head was becoming unbearably tight. He knew he was going to faint. He was fighting this horde of naked women. They all talked with cut-glass accents. They were enjoying his terror, humiliating him, laughing at him. It was a conspiracy of snobbery. Suddenly the steel band snapped. It had done its worst, but he had managed to hold on. His head ached, but it had been released from the torture. He looked down. The naked figure of Gloria was lying very still. Her tongue was hanging out of her mouth like she had vomited it up from her stomach. Her eyes were staring at him, despising him, even in death she was still putting him in his place.
He sat there, holding his head. It was horrible, the way these women made him feel. And now this one was dead, and it was all her fault. She shouldn’t have been so aloof. She had made it clear that she despised him, taunted him with her offhand manner, made him feel inferior, and asked him for money as well, before anything had even happened. He hadn’t intended to do her any harm. He just wanted to stop her shouting and looking at him like he was so far beneath her. He certainly had not intended to strangle her.
He took the dressing-gown and covered her body and her face, covered the staring, scornful eyes. Had anyone seen him come in? It had been dark. They had used a torch. He had the feeling that this was a very discreet block of flats in whi
ch everybody kept themselves to themselves. He straightened himself up and looked at his face in a mirror in the bathroom. The bitch had scratched his cheek. What time was it? He looked at his watch and was surprised to see that it was only ten o’clock.
He moved quietly out into the corridor with her torch. He tried to remember the way they had come. There were stairs. There weren’t any lights under the doors in the corridor, and it was very quiet. People who lived in this sort of set-up might have gone away somewhere safer. People who could afford it had all gone into the country. Even the poverty-stricken East Enders had swamped the hop fields of Kent, where they spent their annual summer holidays, sleeping out in the open. There were reports of half the population of Plymouth living on Dartmoor. The Yorkshire Dales were full of campers from Manchester and Leeds. There were rumbles of gunfire in the distance, but it seemed a very long way away.
He got into the deserted street. It was unlikely that there were any taxis running during the alert – in any case, he didn’t want to be picked up anywhere near the block of flats, but walking to Ealing was out of the question. He got to the bridge and looked over towards London. There were flashes in the sky. There was a ding-dong going on down river. And then, quite suddenly, he saw a black shape in the sky and heard a tremendous hum as a bomb fell near to the bridge. Of course, the bridge – any bridge – would be a target. A column of water shot up, sploshing over the road and pavement.
Christ, that was close. He decided to get to the other side and started running but was soon out of breath. He got to the crown of the bridge and stopped. The plane that had dropped the bomb had swooped around and was coming back. He dropped to his knees and covered his face with his hands, but the plane passed harmlessly overhead. He looked across the bridge. There was no one in sight. He staggered on, holding on to the railings. He could hear the water lapping around the base. He got to the other side, exhausted, and slumped on to the pavement.
A rickety lorry came along and stopped. The driver got out. ‘You all right, mate?’
He looked up. ‘Yes. Sure. I’m all right. A bomb fell into the river.’
‘Yeah, I heard it. Shakes you up a bit, don’t it?’ It was a ragged figure, with a cap and scarf, a white pinched face.
‘Which way are you going?’
‘I don’t rightly know,’ said the man. ‘Never been over this way before. I’m supposed to pick up some stuff from Shepherd’s Bush. Never heard of it. Have you?’
Bernard hauled himself up. ‘Yes. I can show you.’ Shepherd’s Bush was on his way home. After that there was the interminable stretch of the Uxbridge Road, but it would get him well on the way. The best bit of luck he’d had all day.
The driver was from Poplar. ‘It’s bloody chronic over there. There’s more houses down than up. Those people ain’t got nothing. The bloody hospitals are bursting.’
‘What are you after, in Shepherd’s Bush?’
‘Blankets. It’s some Territorial place. A drill hall. I want to get back tonight if I can.’
‘Is it your lorry?’
‘It is. I use it for rag and bone. Winkles and shrimps on a Sunday. Celery. But this is better. I’m on hire all the time now.’ He laughed. ‘I’ll be able to retire when this is all over.’
Bernard stared out of the window. God knows how the driver could see where he was going. Was that Edith Grove? ‘Stop a minute,’ he said. ‘Let me get my bearings.’ He stared out at the rows of Victorian houses. ‘Yes. Through here. Keep going on this road. You’ll eventually get to the Bush.’
The lorry groaned and shook, Bernard with his head out of the window, trying to navigate. The journey into West London seemed to take for ever. They found a coffee stall still operating outside Earl’s Court, and they stopped a while for Bernard to check the direction.
‘Blimey,’ said the driver. ‘Haven’t had much over here, have they? We’ve had a right packet where I come from.’
It was one o’clock when they got to Shepherd’s Bush. Bernard asked the driver about running on to West Ealing.
‘Ain’t got the petrol, mate. Only enough to get back.’ So Bernard found himself on Shepherd’s Bush Green in the early morning. It was cold and damp, but at least he was well away from the flats and those staring eyes. He sat down under a tree. The ground was hard and knobbly, but he suddenly felt at peace and soon fell asleep. He was in a posh flat somewhere and this woman was mad for it. He kept telling her ‘No’ and pushing her away. He gave her an almighty shove, and she fell and banged her head on a marble mantelpiece. She was dead, and she said it was his fault. Then he became aware of a slight sticky sensation on his cheek. It was the sort of dry lick you get from a cat sucking with its tongue. He put his hand up and encountered a small nose. He opened his eyes. It was getting light. How long had he been there, sleeping out in the open like a tramp? The small face had a beret on. It was very close and the tongue had been on his cheek. It was a young girl. He couldn’t tell how young. Two eyes promising a grubby sensuality were looking at him in an appealing, meaningful way.
‘Hello, mister,’ said the girl, licking her lips. ‘Do you want a –’
‘No, I don’t,’ he said. He’d never been so sure of anything in his life.
Rosa Tcherny thought that Charlie looked ridiculous in her father’s clothes. The trousers pulled up tightly under his crotch, the coat sleeves flapped, the shirt collar was two sizes too large. He looked as though he was a part of a variety knockabout act, like he’d left the Army and joined a circus. She thought that he would go as soon as he was dressed, and she made a brown-paper parcel of his uniform and another of his boots, but he sort of hung about, smiling vacantly, looking lost.
‘My mother will be in soon,’ she said, ‘and my father.’
‘I know,’ he said. ‘I was thinking that I ought to wait until it’s dark – if you don’t mind.’ He smiled a nervous smile. He was crazy to have got himself into this predicament, but Rosa couldn’t help feeling sorry for the poor fool.
‘You’ll have to go in the end,’ she said pointedly.
‘Oh yes, I know.’
‘Have you had anything to eat?’ Rosa asked. Even a condemned man was entitled to a hearty breakfast.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I don’t want anything.’
‘You don’t think it would be better to give yourself up now? The longer you leave it, the worse it will be.’
‘I know,’ he said. He was trapped by his own foolishness. Whatever indignities the Army dished out, it must have been better to endure them than to run. ‘I don’t know what to do,’ he said helplessly.
Rosa heard a key in the front door lock.
Charlie looked scared. He went white. ‘Please,’ he said. ‘Please.’
Rosa gestured to him to go upstairs, and he scattered away like a frightened rabbit. Her mother came in, looking tired. She worked in shifts, sorting salvage.
‘How was it today?’
‘Oh, all right,’ said her mother. ‘I don’t mind the work. It’s just that I feel so grubby. You never know where some of those things have come from.’
‘No. I suppose not.’
‘What about you? Any news?’
‘I had a call from one of my old bosses. He says he’s going to start up again on his own. Run the business from his home.’
‘Well, that’ll be all right then, won’t it?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Rosa. ‘He’s the black sheep of the family. A bit of a pig. It would’ve been better if the other one had called.’
Her mother had sat down. She looked tired. ‘I’ll make some tea,’ Rosa said.
‘I’ll go up for a bath first,’ said Mrs Tcherny. ‘And I’m having more than four inches.’
‘I’ll go up and run it for you,’ Rosa said quickly. She went upstairs. She didn’t know whether Charlie would be in the bathroom. He wasn’t. He was on the landing, looking fearful. She shot him a warning look but saw that he was staring over her shoulder, down the stairs. Her mother was in the
hall, looking up.
‘Who’s that?’ she called.
Rosa turned. It was all up. Charlie was simply no good at subterfuge. The enemy would easily find him in a haystack. ‘It’s Charlie,’ she said. ‘He called in.’
‘Good evening, Mrs Tcherny,’ said Charlie and smiled his boyish smile.
It seemed as though this was a play in which all the actors had forgotten their lines. Mrs Tcherny felt that there was something odd about the situation because Rosa and Charlie looked so guilty. Surely they hadn’t been at it again? Well, that was how it was when you were young. Couldn’t get enough. Frederic had been like that when they were in Vienna. She had thought at the time that it might have been the influence of the city of romantic liaisons, but now she knew that urgency in youths was universal.
‘You can come down, Charlie. It’s all right.’
Charlie came down the stairs wearing his usual sheepish grin. He was a nice enough young man, but he was so shy that it was painful. There was something rather odd about his appearance. As though he had shrunk inside his clothes. Everything he had on was flapping around him.
‘Are you on leave?’ she said.
‘Yes,’ he replied, licking his lips nervously.
‘I hope they’re giving you enough to eat,’ she said. ‘You’ve lost weight.’
‘For God’s sake, Mother,’ Rosa exploded. ‘He’s got Dad’s clothes on. He’s on the run.’ The boy looked scared. His shoulders began to shake.
‘On the run?’ said Mrs Tcherny. ‘Do you mean he’s deserted?’ There was a long silence. Rosa looked impatient; Charlie looked scared. ‘But why?’ said Mrs Tcherny. ‘What has happened?’
‘He just couldn’t take it,’ said Rosa in a voice that mixed contempt with pity.
‘Oh my God,’ said Mrs Tcherny. ‘He can’t stay here.’
‘I’ve told him that,’ said Rosa. ‘He wanted to get his Army things off, so he wouldn’t be so conspicuous, although I think he looks more conspicuous as he is.’
Mrs Tcherny found herself shouting: ‘Go down to the police station and give yourself up.’
Bless ’Em All Page 18