I hated how he had made her into somebody different. I had loved her as she was. I had loved every part of her. I had cut her fingernails when they grew too long, careful not to catch her with the scissors. I had combed out her hair when the winter wind had whipped it into a tangle of knots. I had counted her eyelashes as she lay sleeping. But she had chosen him over me, leaving me good for nothing.
I was still lying there when the clock on the mantelpiece struck midnight. She had been gone too long for just dinner. One thought led to another, each one worse than the one before it, like rot spreading through apples in a loft. In my mind’s eye they took a taxi to a hotel, hidden away down a back street, shabbier than she had hoped. He told the woman at the reception desk that they were man and wife; that Grace belonged to him. She would be nervous as she climbed the stairs; he would not. Once they were in the room he would take off her coat, her dress and the stockings that he had paid for and she would be happy for him to do it.
My imagination faltered then. All I could think of was Reverend Rivers lurching towards me, the stubble against my cheek and the smell of tobacco on his breath. The thought of it made me sick to my stomach.
I took the blanket from the bed, wrapped it around myself and went to the armchair to wait for her, counting the chimes of the clock that came every quarter of an hour. It was cold in the chair but the idea of being in bed alone was worse and so I drew my feet up underneath me and tucked in the blanket. We would be sleeping apart for the first time since the war had begun.
I waited all night for her. At three o’clock the sirens went off but I ignored them. When I heard the crunch, followed by the rumble of a falling building, I felt something close to disappointment. I was tired, not just from having stayed awake that night, but from the effort of pretending for so long, of keeping my feelings hidden inside me, where they smouldered like the embers of a fire, ready to burst back into flame with just one word from her. My head ached and my face was tight and sore from crying. A rocket would have finished it all for me, neatly and with no fuss.
At six o’clock the All-Clear sounded. Half an hour later a key turned in the lock. The door opened and Grace came into the room.
As soon as I saw her I knew that she had done it. Two pearl earrings swung from her ears and she smelled of cigarettes. She was singing quietly to herself, an old song that they played sometimes on the wireless.
I’ve got you, under my skin,
I’ve got you, deep in the heart of me.
So deep in my heart that darling, you’re really a part of me,
I’ve got you, under my skin.
She jumped when she saw me in the armchair.
‘Nora! What are you doing there? Why aren’t you in bed?’
‘I was waiting for you,’ I said, too tired to lie.
Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes glittered with excitement. She sat in the chair opposite and leaned towards me.
‘Oh Nora,’ she said. ‘It was so romantic. It was just as I’d dreamed it would be. And it didn’t hurt, not a bit.’
She began to tell me all about it, starting from the moment they left the flat, then the dinner, the earrings and the rest of it; the whole sordid story. By the end of it I knew that she had let him do to her what Reverend Rivers had wanted to do to me and that she had liked it. I began to feel lost.
Grace carried on talking. ‘He told me that he liked me as soon as he saw me.’
I looked at her blankly.
‘When we met in that café on our first day here. Don’t you remember? It was raining outside and there was that bomb. He paid for our lunch. He said that he followed us to the cinema and waited in a pub until we came out. That’s how much he wanted to see me again. He didn’t meet us by chance at all. Isn’t that wonderful?’
I didn’t think it was wonderful at all. It made me feel stupid, as if we had walked into a trap.
‘It’s like something out of a book,’ she said. ‘Or a film. He reminds me of Maxim de Winter in Rebecca. He always knows what to do. He seems to know what I’m thinking before I know it myself.’
She had always liked Maxim de Winter, from the moment we had picked up the book. I didn’t like the way he kept calling the heroine a silly little fool.
‘Maxim de Winter killed his wife - remember that,’ I muttered.
There was a short, unpleasant pause.
‘Why are you being so horrid?’ she said. ‘He’s a very nice man.’
‘He’s a bloody nuisance,’ I snapped.
She flinched, as if I had struck her.
‘Well he is,’ I said. ‘He’s always here, pretending to want to look after us, but really he just wants to get his hands on you.’
Grace was staring at me. I stared back defiantly, meeting her gaze. When she spoke, there was pity in her voice, but it was mixed with anger.
‘Nora, are you jealous? I think you are. I think you’re jealous because he picked me. You want someone like him for yourself. That’s what it is, you’re jealous.’ She nodded slowly as if she had discovered something extraordinary.
She knew me well enough. I was jealous. But she hadn’t guessed quite right. I started to laugh bitterly. All the anger that I had swallowed back since we had met Bernard came spilling out.
‘Jealous over him?’ I said. ‘I wouldn’t want him. He’s a crook.’ I went over to the table and pulled out a handful of ration books from one of the boxes. ‘They’re stolen. They sell them in pubs for five pounds each. It’s the same with those bottles of whisky and gin. It’s the same with all the presents he gives you. They’re stolen, or black market at least. He keeps it all here until it’s worth something and then he sells it on for as much as he can get. He’s getting rich on this war.’
She was trembling. My heart was beating fast. I knew that I shouldn’t go on but I was feeling reckless and cruel. I wanted to hurt her.
‘You’re the same to him. You’re something extra, like those glasses of whisky he likes to have after dinner. When you’re not worth it any more he’ll drop you. You know he will.’
She was very pale.
‘No he won’t. He loves me,’ she said coldly. ‘You just don’t understand. But why should you? Your mother gave you away easily enough.’
We were both shaking. Before she could say any more, I turned and ran from the room, slamming the door behind me. I hurried down the stairs, out of the front door, along the street and around the corner to the little square. I sat on a bench and cried until I could no longer see.
Twenty-One
RESENTMENT BEGAN TO SMOULDER INSIDE ME, FEEDING A suspicion that took root and quickly grew. I watched them as they went about their business, lighting the fire, plumping up pillows and changing sheets. Rose was as kind as ever and David was always polite. But I noticed the looks that passed between them. Since their trip to the cinema, something was different. Rose’s stubbornness had disappeared. Their conversation was quicker, more intimate, hinting at other discussions that took place out of my earshot. They used words that I’d never heard before and talked about things that I didn’t understand.
I decided that he was making a play for Rose. He had planned it all, paying her attention, encouraging her to leave the house and taking her to the cinema. My illness was providing him with an opportunity.
Over my dead body, I thought grimly.
I was unnerved by the strength of my feelings, but they were impossible to control. It was bad enough when the two of them were with me but even worse when I was left alone with my imagination, guessing at what was going on elsewhere. Rose began to take more care over the way she looked, putting away her black vest and wearing colourful clothes. She had never seemed to care much about her hair, leaving it to hang loose about her shoulders, but now it was neatly combed and coiled at the nape of her neck. For the first time, I noticed her wearing make-up, a dash of mascara on her eyelashes. She looked pretty but I couldn’t bring myself to tell her so. I said less and less. My mouth had filled with a nasty, sou
r taste, leaving me with nothing good to say.
I took to keeping my eyes closed so that I didn’t have to see them. They talked more freely when they thought I was asleep. One day I overheard them discussing me.
‘I don’t know what’s wrong,’ Rose said. She sounded almost tearful.
‘What do you mean?’ said David.
‘It’s Nora. She’s different. Something’s changed. She doesn’t want to speak to me. I think I’ve upset her.’
I missed Rose terribly. I longed to talk to her, to explain myself. After keeping quiet for so long, I wanted someone to know what had happened. I wanted someone to understand. But David was always there. When he wasn’t looking after me, he was playing with the baby. He handled her easily, with no trace of awkwardness, and she seemed to like him as much as her mother did, gurgling and smiling, letting out little squeaks of pleasure. He looked after her now when Rose was busy. They thought I wasn’t up to it, I could tell. I missed playing with her on the bed. I missed holding her close.
‘She’s never given much away,’ Rose went on. ‘She didn’t even want to tell me she was ill. I thought we were friends, but now it’s as if I’ve offended her. She just lies there, watching what’s going on, but she won’t say anything. I don’t know what to do.’
‘Look,’ said David. ‘It’s like this sometimes, with cancer. It messes up people’s brains. I’ve had patients who’ve said awful things to the people that they’re closest to. They don’t mean it. They can’t help it. It’s the disease.’
‘But I don’t want Nora to hate me.’
‘There’s nothing we can do. And, you know, it might get worse. You need to be ready for that.’
She said something that I couldn’t make out.
He’s right, I thought. I’m not like this. It comes from this thing that’s inside me. It’s turning me into something hateful.
But I knew that it wasn’t quite true. The Menace and I were inextricably linked. We came from the same bad place.
A few days later, I heard laughter coming from the garden, two young voices combined. I wanted to know what was so funny. With difficulty, I hauled myself to the edge of the bed and then stood up on my bound feet, holding onto the armchair. The laughter came again, louder. I let go of the armchair and inched my way to the window, where I stood, out of breath, looking down.
The garden had grown back since our efforts to tidy it. I peered at the dark tangle of ivy and the wintry mass of rotting plants and leaves. The flowers were long gone, everything a dull, dead brown apart from a plastic bag caught in a shrub. I looked for the Graces, trying to make them out amongst the vegetation, and as my eyes adjusted to the dim winter light I saw David and Rose, standing close together. She was leaning against one of the statues, Hope, looking up at him and smiling. As I watched, he reached out and touched her shoulder. I felt a sudden stab of pain.
My bitterness grew. I wanted to remind Rose of my existence, to show her I was still alive.
‘Would you do something for me?’ I said to her one morning.
She was as eager to help as always, keen to be useful. ‘Of course, Nora. What is it?’
For a moment I was sorry but I swallowed back my regret.
‘Would you look in my bottom drawer for a nightdress? It’s a white one with embroidery around the collar.’
She rummaged through the chest of drawers.
‘This one?’
The nightdress looked smaller than I’d remembered but we had always been the same size. I knew it would fit.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘That’s it.’
She came over to the bed and gave it to me. I pressed the worn cotton against my cheek. I wanted to lose myself in it, just once more.
‘Rose,’ I said. ‘Would you help me put it on?’
She looked puzzled. ‘It looks very old,’ she said uncertainly. ‘It’s lovely embroidery. What if—?’
I knew what she meant. She was worried that the nightdress would be ruined, like so many others before it.
‘It’s all right,’ I said shortly. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
I made her close the door before she undressed me. Although she had done it often enough, I was as ashamed of my nakedness as I had been the first time. I sat with my jaw clenched as she undid the button of the nightdress I was wearing, pulled it up over my head and replaced it with the new one, threading my arms through its sleeves.
I felt better but I couldn’t stop myself.
‘There’s something else,’ I said.
She nodded.
‘We should pack up my clothes. I won’t be needing them again. We can give them to one of those charity shops on the Holloway Road.’ I paused. ‘Because it’s going to be soon, you see. I can feel it.’
I found the sight of tears in her eyes oddly satisfying.
‘It won’t take long,’ I said. ‘I haven’t got many things. Perhaps you could get some rubbish sacks to put them in.’
She stared at me for a second, then nodded briefly and left the room.
Like all the things I had done out of envy, my bid for attention back-fired. When Rose came back she wouldn’t look at me and she said nothing as she pulled clothes from the chest of drawers and the wardrobe and held them up, one at a time, waiting for me to nod or shake my head. The rubbish sacks grew shiny and taut as they were filled, first with the dresses that George had bought me, little slips of bright material, and then the ones I had bought myself after he died, made of serviceable cloth in drab colours, a testament to trying to go unnoticed. The pile of things to keep was small; some nightdresses, a cardigan or two, old knickers and some bed socks. They would have fitted into the pillowcase that I took with me to Kent at the start of it all, or the one that I ran back with at the end. The thought of those two journeys made me blink back tears of my own.
In the days that followed, I felt a terrible loneliness. I was ashamed of how I’d treated Rose. I thought before I spoke, careful not to cause any more harm. But my suspicions wouldn’t go away. I fretted and fumed over every look that passed between them, each smile or exchange of words. I wanted to go back to how we’d been when it was just the three of us. Rose had made me feel useful again. She had given me a purpose. I had cared for her and she had looked after me. We had brought Grace into the world together. But now I had been replaced in her affections. Our little family was breaking apart. I felt a sudden sympathy for Rose’s mother, left behind and shut out. I was beginning to understand, I thought, how it was to lose a child.
I knew I wasn’t being fair to Rose. It was I who was going to leave her. But I still couldn’t bear to think of David taking my place, of having the pleasure of a future with Rose and the baby.
I wanted him to go away, to leave us in peace, but my body let me down by needing him. Each time I lost control of my bladder he was there to change the sodden sheets. He rubbed oil into my sores and washed away the sweat that oozed out of me at night. He smiled as he did it, speaking soft, soothing words.
David and Rose had their kindness in common. I repaid it with a sullenness that kept me apart and alone.
With each day that passed my body crumbled further. I was turning into something between a living being and a corpse, neither dead nor alive. When I began to feel the cold air against my scalp in the mornings I asked Rose to bring me a mirror. My reflection made me shrink away in horror. My eyes stared out from hollow sockets, their faded blue the only colour in a face in which skin stretched over bone in a ghastly premonition of a skeleton. My lips were cracked. They collapsed inwards, pressed together, the lips of someone with secrets. A few strands of hair straggled over my scalp like grasses left after a harvest. The disease had made me into something inhuman. My wickedness was on display to whoever cared to look.
Twenty-Two
Our quarrel made me realize that I needed to be careful. If not, I would lose her altogether. I went back to the flat and apologized. I ate my words. I lied.
I went on lying all through the winter. It
was a miserable time. The freezing fog crept into my lungs, making me wheeze and cough. A cold I had picked up at the factory lingered on for weeks and my nose ran constantly, making my skin tight and raw. Everything seemed to matter a great deal. I was always tired, exhausted from the effort of examining the things Grace said or did whilst trying to keep my own feelings hidden. I forced myself to stay awake at night until her breathing was deep, then I would fall into a shallow sleep at the edge of the bed, waking early, shivering and tense.
I came to dread the hour between six and seven at night, when I knew Bernard would arrive at any moment. I would have nothing to say, my mind occupied with black thoughts that left no space for other things. As the minute hand on the clock jerked forward I would shuffle and shift about, chewing at my nails. As soon as I heard his key in the lock, a flat gloom would come over me, reducing me to sullen silence, my only weapon against him.
I tried to ignore them, hiding behind books, but one night I couldn’t stand any more of it. Grace was fluttering about him like a bird, bringing him drinks and fussing as he sat in his armchair. I went to the bathroom to calm down. I was sitting on the edge of the bathtub, trying to compose myself, when I heard Bernard’s voice.
‘She’s such a misery. I’d much rather see you on your own. Can’t you get rid of her?’
I strained to hear Grace’s reply but she spoke too quietly, and I suddenly felt very alone, wondering if she felt the same as he did. When I came out of the bathroom she wouldn’t meet my eyes and I felt even worse.
Days of Grace Page 21