Bless ’Em All

by Saddler, Allen

  She put some cold cream on the bruises on her neck, but it just looked blue and greasy so she wiped it off. She found a small scarf that covered it. She didn’t want any embarrassing questions.

  Her mother had found some kippers for tea. She had boiled them, as there was no fat. The little bit of fat allowed in the rations was used to roast a small joint for Sunday. There was margarine, but Rosa preferred dry bread to that tasteless oily spread. Only last year they used to have lashings of butter with everything. The government said that the diet was not only adequate but healthy. The Ministry of Food was always publishing little pamphlets telling how you could make a nourishing meal from potato peelings and dried egg and nutmeg.

  She poked at the kipper. It didn’t even smell of fish, let alone kipper.

  ‘What’s the matter with your neck?’ her mother said.

  Rosa knew her mother’s instinct for spotting a weakness. ‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘I found this scarf in the drawer and I decided to wear it.’

  Her mother said nothing, but Rosa could see that she wasn’t convinced.

  Her father came in and sat at the table. Rosa’s mother put his plate, with the juiciest kipper, in front of him.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he said. ‘Is this for the cat?’

  ‘Look,’ said his wife, red and harassed, ‘everything’s gone. We’ve used up the rations. It was all I could get.’

  They ate it silence.

  Then Mr Tcherny said, ‘I’m going to make some jam.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Mrs Tcherny. ‘And where are you going to get the fruit from?’

  ‘Someone at work has an allotment.’

  ‘And the sugar?’

  ‘Black market. Where else?’ He said this in a matter-of-fact way, which was in line with his downbeat view that everything in the state of Britain – and everywhere else for that matter – was rotten.

  ‘Do you think that’s right?’ said Rosa.

  ‘And why not?’ said Mr Tcherny.

  ‘Because some people can’t afford to get things on the black market.’

  ‘Some people can afford things black market, some can’t. There’s always been people who can’t afford things,’ said her father. ‘It’s the way of the world.’ He looked at her sharply. ‘What’s the matter with your neck?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Rosa.

  ‘She won’t say,’ said her mother.

  ‘For God’s sake,’ said Rosa. ‘Just because I’ve taken a fancy to wear a scarf.’

  Her father looked surprised at this outburst. ‘Well, if there’s nothing wrong with your neck you won’t mind us having a look.’ And before she could react he had leant over and deftly plucked way the scarf and held it in his hand like a conjuror at the end of a trick.

  ‘How did you do that?’ her mother said. ‘What’s happened to you?’

  ‘It’s nothing,’ said Rosa. ‘Don’t make a fuss.’

  ‘You decided to strangle yourself?’ said her father. ‘And gave up half-way?’

  Rosa sat silent. What should she say? ‘It’s nothing to do with you,’ she said finally.

  But Mr Tcherny was beginning to enjoy the role of chief interrogator. ‘Did you hear that, Lena? Our daughter decides to try to strangle herself and thinks that it is nothing to do with us? Have you been seeing that mad boy again? The one that was taken away?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Charlie. Have you forgotten him so quickly?’

  ‘No. I don’t know what happened to him.’

  ‘He was a poor creature,’ said Rosa’s mother. ‘I felt sorry for him.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Rosa, glad of the diversion. ‘I suppose I ought to ask his parents.’

  ‘Don’t get involved,’ said Mr Tcherny. ‘Sleeping dogs, as they say.’

  Mrs Tcherny removed the plates and returned with some rice pudding.

  ‘Oh well,’ said Rosa’s father. ‘The Chinese have lived on it for thousands of years. By the way, how did you get that bruise on your neck?’

  Rosa felt trapped. If she didn’t tell them something they would keep at it until things got nasty. ‘We were playing about at work,’ she said lamely.

  ‘Of course,’ said Mr Tcherny. ‘Seeing who couldn’t strangle the other first? Old English pastime. Morris-dancing, folk-singing, the hokey-cokey and strangling each other.’

  ‘Oh, shut up,’ Rosa shouted. ‘If you must know, the man I work with went a bit mad. I’m not going back any more. I’ve given in my notice. I think I might get my proper job back now, with the other brother, Maurice, who’s quite all right.’

  Mr Tcherny was rolling a cigarette. It was a complicated business with a little machine, paper and a filter tip. He prided himself on the outcome, making it as near to a manufactured cigarette as possible. He lit the cigarette and smoked with satisfaction.

  ‘This man’, he said, ‘who tried to strangle you. Is he mad?’

  Rosa looked down. The whole business would have to come out. ‘I think he might be,’ she said. ‘He seemed to be in a fit, like he didn’t know he was doing it.’

  Mrs Tcherny looked worried. ‘Do you think he might do it again?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Rosa. ‘But I won’t be there if he does.’

  Mr Tcherny drew heavily on his home-made cigarette. ‘Rosa,’ he said quietly. ‘Do you realize what you’ve said? You don’t mind if he strangles someone as long as it’s not you?’

  ‘I didn’t mean it like that,’ Rosa mumbled.

  ‘Well, that’s what it sounded like to me,’ said her mother.

  ‘Look,’ said Rosa. ‘It’s all over. I’m all right. Now let’s forget all about it.’

  Mr Tcherny stood up. ‘I don’t think we can. It sounds as though you’ve encountered a dangerous lunatic. And I think you have a duty to do something about it. If we were to hear of some other girl who’s been strangled, I, for one, would never forgive myself.’

  As Bernard had warned, the police had their hands full, but, as she was there, with her father as well, they had to take her statement. The statement was written by hand, by a sweating policeman who seemed as if he was not only unfamiliar with writing but with most of the English language. They took Bernard’s name and address and said they would look into it. It was nearly dark when they left. Rosa’s father took her into a pub and bought her a brandy.

  ‘Messy business,’ he said, ‘but you had no option.’

  It was a noisy pub, with servicemen and servicewomen on leave and determined to let everyone know it. The civilian population bought drinks for them as if they were glad they weren’t one of them. Everybody knew that there were bloody times ahead, either at home or abroad. The Germans had caught Britain on the hop. The British didn’t think that the enemy would turn so nasty so soon. In the tradition of fair play they expected that they would get fair warning. That’s what had upset them more than anything. It was only eight o’clock, but there were sailors and soldiers reeling about, bumping into people, and flushed ATS with their collars open and ties askew. They were more drunk on excitement than beer, which was hardly strong enough to cause any insobriety. Outside the door were the redcaps, ready to sweep the worst cases up into a van.

  Bernard had taken himself up to town. God knows what he was going to do now. He needed to think about this but not now. He needed a rest from thinking. All his plans had come to nothing. And the worst thing was that Maurice had arrived just as he’d got into an awkward spot with that girl. What got into him these days? Was it anger, frustration, lust? It was all those things, but they had been with him for a long time without previously bursting out into uncontrollable destructive impulses.

  He slipped into the Windmill, a tiny little theatre at the back of Piccadilly Circus. It was the only place going for live entertainment. It was called Revaudeville, a little show that lasted about ninety minutes, which, after a performance and a short interval, started all over again, day and night, continuously. There was a piano and drums, comics and singers, two old men dressed up as women cal
led Biddie and Fanny, but, most importantly, chorus girls, some of whom danced in a sketchy sort of way and others who were completely static and appeared to be nude, just staring ahead as though they didn’t know anyone was watching. They appeared in practically every scene, with a bass singer whose shirt was open to show his body glistening with grease and who appeared variously as a desperate pirate, a lovelorn gypsy, a light-hearted romantic matelot and a swarthy Frenchman with memories of ‘Gay Paree’. As a show it was a shambles, and the performers knew it – especially the comedians, who knew that they might as well be putting on shows for the deaf – but it was received with rapt attention by the audience that sat in darkness and seemed to be nailed to their seats and to have taken a vow of silence.

  As the show finished Bernard crept closer to the front row. It was soon dark again and the nudes would be on, Britannia and La Belle France and the little Dutch girl, all with outstanding breasts, baring them with patriotic zeal for the men who might be dead next week without ever seeing a woman in all her naked glory.

  After the second show Bernard felt stiff. There was little room between the rows. His long legs were cramped and aching. Reluctant as he was he knew he would have to move. As soon as he got up someone sidled into his seat. He moved to the exit, noticing the faces, from the brazen to the shamefaced. It seemed that nobody was enjoying themselves.

  He walked further, to the shops, usually filled with foreign food but now looking sad with depleted stocks, and found one of his clients. The bookshop window was full of titles supplied by him: No Pockets in a Shroud, The History of the Rod, Brother and Sister, The Rainbow. It was a good selection, better than bloody Arnold Bennet. Maybe if he talked to Maurice he might get his old patch back. Maybe he shouldn’t have tried to branch out on his own.

  Somehow, without consciously making a beeline for it, he found himself outside the Hostess Club. He poked his head in the door. The place seemed quiet, deserted. He went into the bar. There were a few drinkers but no piano player or drummer. It was unnaturally quiet, more like a funeral parlour than a place for high jinks. He went to the bar.

  ‘Quiet, ain’t it?’ he said to the barman.

  ‘They’ve gone to the funeral,’ the barman said.

  ‘Funeral?’

  ‘Bunty,’ said the barman. ‘You know. The blonde one. Deaf and dumb she was but always out for a good time. Bloody good sort she was.’

  Bunty; it was an odd sort of name, maybe from a children’s book, but somehow it suited her. Yes, she had been a good sort in her way. She’d put up with some of his nonsense. She was always bubbly and eager to please. He hadn’t known she was deaf and dumb. That explained a few things.

  ‘What happened to her?’

  ‘A bomb.’ The barman graphically described a bomb falling with two fingers shooting downwards and a low whistle. ‘Smack. A direct hit.’

  Bernard felt sick. This was a woman he had been with quite recently. He remembered the day he had brought Maurice, and he took Bunty upstairs, just to show Maurice how it was done. Of course, it was too much like real life for Maurice. It would have been all right if he had read about it in some French book.

  Bernard found that he couldn’t stay in the place. It had lost its sense of excitement. The war had caught up with it, neutralized it, rendered it ordinary and sad. Bunty’s death might well be the death of the place. He could never go there again. He came out, experiencing a cold shiver, but outside didn’t seem much better. The area devoted to gaiety seemed to have gone into mourning. People with set faces mooned about. A blight had settled on Soho. Maybe it would never be the same again. Blast the war. Stopping everybody’s pleasure, making everything dull.

  He made his way to Tottenham Court Road. He could get to Ealing Broadway and then catch a bus to his home. The time had come for a penitent telephone call to his brother. He got off the bus and walked towards his house. There was a policeman standing outside, chatting to a postman. What was this about? He stopped and turned back. Too late. The postman was pointing at him. The policeman was coming towards him. He felt that he ought to run but dismissed the idea as the action of a guilty man. He went ahead.

  ‘Mr Green? Mr Bernard Green?’

  ‘Yes,’ Bernard replied, smiling a smile that strained credulity. ‘It’s nothing to worry about, sir. We’d just like you to come down to the station.’

  ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘What about?’

  ‘It’s only a street away, sir.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ he said. ‘In Uxbridge Road.’

  ‘That’s right, sir. Can you get into the car?’

  The car sped through the ordinary streets, terraces and some larger detached houses. The little front gardens seemed plain and drab. It was an area inhabited by hard-working artisans who lived plain, ordinary lives. He had seen them with their plain, ordinary wives, armholed to the shops, with baskets and bags and with not an ounce of joy between them. What would they think if they knew what he had been up to?

  They put him in a small office, a cheerless room, nothing to read, nothing to see. There was just a table with a chair on either side. After what seemed like an age a chap in civilian clothes came in and sat down opposite him. He had a foxy face. He looked at Bernard and smiled as if he was just going to eat Red Riding Hood. The man was reading through some notes. Bernard couldn’t tell anything from his expression. The man rubbed the side of his face. He had a world-weary air, as though he would never understand why people did the things they did.

  ‘Mr Green,’ he said finally. ‘Mr Bernard Green … Would you mind giving me your address?’

  Bernard swallowed hard. That damned Tcherny girl must have reported him. He’d lost his temper with her, but she hadn’t come to any harm. He gave his address, his age, his business. It all seemed quite normal, like a visit to a new bank. Then suddenly it turned very serious.

  ‘Did you know an actress called Gloria Grainger?’

  My God, they’d put two and two together in double-quick time. ‘No,’ he said slowly. ‘I don’t think so.’

  A expression of distaste and annoyance arrived on his questioner’s face. ‘Are you sure, sir?’ he said, as if he knew Bernard was lying and so wasting his time.

  ‘Think so,’ said Bernard.

  ‘Right,’ said the man. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to stay with us for a while. We’ll be setting up an identity parade.’

  Bert Penrose had been told that he would be fitted with an artificial leg. He would be sent to a centre in Richmond to be measured up. He was pleased to hear of some progress in his affairs, as he’d been feeling down lately, just sitting around, whiling time away, his life slipping through his fingers. Edie didn’t come any more. He’d never really welcomed her visits, but she was somebody he knew and who knew him, which made him feel as if he belonged somewhere, had somebody. Without Edie’s visits he became anonymous, just someone who was around. It was probably his own fault. He hadn’t been very nice to her. Her white anxious face had got on his nerves. He couldn’t help the way he was. She had been all right, had Edie. When they first met she was a pretty little thing, very shy and blushed easily, and he had enjoyed saying those things to her that turned her pretty cheeks red. The trouble was that he’d never had much of a job. He left school at fourteen with no exams behind him. He was only fit for manual labour. In the circumstances he hadn’t done badly. He didn’t know anybody, had no influence, just his final report when he left school, signed by the headmaster, saying he was honest, intelligent and industrious. He had drifted into the hotel business by answering an advertisement in the Telegraph. He had never been out of work, and now he felt useless. He’d be stuck in this place making poppies for Armistice Day or maybe sitting behind a cloakroom counter. He was never going to flower into a hall porter now. He thought about getting some paper and envelopes and writing to Edie, but, no, she’d turn up. That was one thing about Edie: however nasty, however critical, whatever he said, she always came back for more. She knew she was stuck with him – a
nd, he supposed, he was stuck with her. All these fantasies he had about Bunty and other bits of stuff he’d seen about were never going to amount to anything now. In a way he was lucky he had Edie, despite her being nothing to write home about.

  There were women, with home-knitted jumpers, straight skirts and set, kind faces, who came around with books and magazines or just to talk. They were all right. They smiled all the time like they had some secret key to happiness, but they weren’t telling him. He could ask one of them to go and see Edie. Maybe she’d just given up on him. He hadn’t been very nice to her when she came. Told her not to come so often. And now she didn’t come at all. He’d managed to get into the solo school, but the silly buggers really didn’t know how to play. Somebody had taught him how to play chess, and now he could beat anyone on the ward. He’d always been quick to pick things up.