by BK Duncan
May felt she was waving off a couple of over-excited ten year olds. She stood at the door and watched them prance down the street chatting away as if they could only hold a thought in their head for as long as it took a fresh one to dislodge it. What had she been like when she’d been ten? A tomboy almost certainly, always running around after Albert, wanting to join in climbing trees and dangling fishing-lines into the Cut. Her sister had been too young to be a companion then, and anyway their mother always kept her youngest tied by her apron strings. Perhaps Alice’s current rebellions against responsibility were nothing more than an expression of freedom and not a sign - as May often thought - that she was doing a lousy job as substitute parent. Sally had been right when she’d pointed out how little she knew her sister. They shared biology, a tendency to judge others by their own wavering standards, a prickly defensiveness that was at its worst when tired, and a sense of humour that wasn’t always kind. But she was also aware that they both abhorred injustice, could be generous with what little they had, were blessed with quick minds, weren’t afraid to stand their ground, and had been schooled in enough Communist philosophy to know that the good of the whole outweighed the needs of the few. Alice just needed to grow up a little more before that last attribute would become second nature. May supposed if she were scrupulously honest then on the side of her own debits she’d have to add impatience because, much as she loved her sister, she did find living with her exasperating.
May stood a little longer on the doorstep to watch the pink trails of an early March sunset spread across the sky, and listen to boys down the street organise themselves into a game of firewood and rag-ball cricket. She should check if any of the clothes she might choose to wear needed pressing; the flat iron was only small and took a long time to heat up. Closing the door behind her, she picked her way up the stairs although somehow still managing to trip over a split in the central strip of lino. She turned right at the top into what had been her parents’ bedroom; the other had been Albert’s, then Albert’s and hers, then hers and Alice’s, now Alice’s. She pulled open the wardrobe door. The hanging portion held sensible skirts and blouses, a black Sunday-best frock, and an old cotton print dress for when she needed a compromise between her working clothes and the overalls she wore around the house. Not one of the garments was either new enough, chic enough, or - she had to admit - daring enough, to wear to a nightclub.
May opened the door to her sister’s room. The bed was still unmade but Alice had remembered to close the window against the bone-chilling damp of night mists drifting in off the river. Her wardrobe was more promising. May hadn’t realised how many new clothes Sally had made for her until she saw them hanging together. It was true that Alice had suddenly started filling out in all the right places, and that she needed frocks when she had once worn school uniform, but now it was obvious that what Sally had taken to hinting was true: she was guilty of blatant bribery. The message was clear: make something of yourself, Alice, and you’ll be indulged to be as pretty as a picture. It came to May that some of the wives she folded her sheets with in the washhouse complained about the same sort of approach from their husbands. Only it obviously wasn’t getting a job with prospects but stay out of the pub; behave yourself; get my dinner on the table; don’t say nothing about the fists; give me what I want of a Saturday night. She really did have to change her approach with the girl before Alice began to believe what those women now took as gospel: that love was just another word for coercion and control.
But for now she had to find something that would both flatter her and, now she’d lost the fresh bloom of youth, not make her feel like mutton-dressed-as-lamb. There was a dress in a soft-green crêpe that looked to be less fitted than the rest. It was a little low in the front for her liking but she could button up her navy cardigan over the top. Shoes were less of a problem. Paul Hill, the cobbler, sold uncollected shoes cheaply. It didn’t happen often but sometimes someone would be staying with a church minister or dock official and would have her shoes dropped off, the maid forgetting when they packed to leave. May had acquired two pairs of sandals and some lilac dance shoes that way. She’d let her heart rule her head over that last purchase. It had been love at first stroke of the soft leather. With their thin ankle straps, slender heels, and high instep, they whispered of a glamorous life away from the streets of Poplar where women were whirled around in the arms of handsome beaux - that would never be her, of course, but in her dreams she could dance. Tonight, at long last, she had a chance to wear them. Gloves were catered for, too. Secretly ashamed of her large housework-roughed hands - dockers’ mitts she called them - she had a dozen pairs in different weights and colours she’d picked up for pennies in tat shops.
She took the dress to her room and laid it on the bed. She would wash her hair and then come back upstairs for a nap. It would be terrible to be too tired to enjoy every second of the only proper date she’d had in over two years.
***
The tram joggled over the Ludgate Circus points. May felt a fluttering in her stomach at going out when most of the people she knew had drunk their cocoa and were tucked up in bed. This was the last night tram from Poplar to Piccadilly and had been packed all the way with the oddest collection of people she could’ve imagined sitting together. Some had the pallid weariness of those who had just finished work, some had come from the theatre - possibly from seeing the Hippodrome elephants; she thought of Alice and hoped she’d enjoyed them - a few families with small whining children who had probably been visiting, and at least one policeman who must’ve grown tired pounding his beat.
May stood up when they got to Haymarket. She knew her way around this area of the West End, having accompanied Sally many times as her friend had eyed up the latest fashions. She moved down to the platform as the tram’s motor changed in pitch, and it slowed. A couple in evening dress got off at the same stop. May wondered if they were going to a nightclub as well or possibly to the Trocadero for cocktails and a late supper. She found herself staring after them but a shout from a carman telling her to throw herself in front of the horses and be done with it made her turn on her heels and start walking.
Chapter Eight
The Palm Court Nightclub was in the centre of Gerrard Street opposite the telephone exchange. May hesitated for a moment before going down the short flight of concrete steps. After depositing her coat and hat in the cloakroom she walked through into the club proper. It wasn’t as dimly lit as she’d imagined. There were sofas, a drinks’ bar, a small platform for the band, and tables dotted around a wooden dance floor. A metal spiral staircase carried a stream of thinly-dressed young women, some pausing on the halfway landing to light a cigarette in as theatrical a way as possible.
There was only one lone man sitting at a table, in front and a little to the side of her. She was glad to see Jack had made an effort and was wearing a dark linen jacket instead of that horrendous tweed. A smile pulled at her lips when she imagined his surprise the moment he realised she had changed her plans. She threaded her way over to stand at his shoulder. He threw her a quick glance before staring back down at the half-folded newspaper on the table.
‘Sorry, but whatever it is you’re selling, I’m not in the market.’
May felt her cheeks flame. The stupid idiot wasn’t wearing his glasses. She pulled his spectacle case from his top pocket and laid it on the newspaper.
‘Try these. You’ll find all those marks magically rearrange themselves into words.’
He put them on, and finally looked up at her properly.
‘May Keaps. You came. How fabulous. I’d almost given up all hope. I’m so delighted you were able to make it, I’ve been drowning my sorrows thinking I was going to have to endure the whole night alone.’
His enthusiasm was so spontaneous May thought there was a chance she might forgive him.
‘Take a pew. What can I get you to drink?’ He waved at a passing waiter. ‘I’m sorry I
didn’t recognise you all dolled up - how is it that I always seem to be owing you an apology? Lovely frock, by the way.’
May smiled with what she hoped was a demure expression and sat. If she’d thought selecting a suitable outfit was bad enough, it was nothing compared to what to order to drink. What would be sophisticated, not so expensive that Jack decided never to repeat the experience, and might actually taste pleasant? Then she remembered an advertisement she’d seen of a beautiful, vivacious, and elegant young woman holding a glass of ruby-red Campari. It was too much to hope it would confer the same attributes on her but she asked for a small one in a long glass with lots of soda. Jack’s face was unreadable but the waiter’s expression told of a faint distain, probably at her timidity at not selecting from the extensive list of cocktails on the card he’d waved under her nose.
‘So, how was your journey over? What happened about your sister’s - Alice, isn’t it - birthday treat? Are you sorry not to see the elephants? I trust I can in some way make up for them - not in size and trumpeting ability of course but, you never know, I might prove to be just as entertaining. Thanks again for putting me Mrs Loader’s way. She’s quite a landlady; formidable but straight if you get my drift.’
He was gabbling. Was he nervous? May smiled.
‘That’s all right, really. One of things you’ll soon learn about the East End is that people look out for their friends.’
‘I’m flattered you regard me as one.’
‘I was referring to Kitty Loader.’
That hadn’t come out the way she’d meant. This considering the effect her words might have before saying them was tricky. And she doubted the Campari would help any.
‘Sorry that sounded so snippy. I didn’t intend it to. My only excuse is that I’ve had a horrible day and I guess I’m still a little punchy.’
‘Would you like to talk about it?’
‘No thanks. I’d rather put it behind me and just enjoy being here, with you.’
The waiter returned with their drinks. May took a sip of hers to wet her dry lips and tried not to grimace at the bitterness. She looked down at the paper cocktail coaster. The inner circle contained a brown and cream embossed image of a man and woman dancing so intimately you wouldn’t have been able to get a cigarette skin between them. Her legs began to tremble at the prospect of Jack asking her to take to the floor. She replaced her glass carefully so that it covered everything but the man’s slicked down hair. But she didn’t think it was just the thought of making a fool of herself that’d provoked her reaction, she’d been taken unawares by that blithe couple someplace else. She knew better than to force the memory: it would come up from the depths given time. May pointed at the colourless liquid in front of Jack.
‘What’s that you’re drinking?’
He flung glances over his right and left shoulders like a spectacularly bad actor making a show of being discreet. ‘Promise not to ruin my image as an Irishman and tell? Lemonade. Your company is more than enough stimulation this late at night.’ He grinned. ‘I get this feeling you see, May, that I need to keep my wits about me as far as you’re concerned. Don’t want to ruin my batting average by failing to return a short sharp crack when it’s heading my way.’
She deserved that. And it hadn’t been said unkindly. It made her relax a little with its inherent permission not to have to be so po-faced she didn’t recognise herself.
‘Have you registered your ration card yet? Get Mrs Loader to tell you where she gets her butter and sugar and you can do the same. Most grocers in Poplar will slip in a little extra something if they’re catering for an entire household.’
‘Thanks for the tip. What’s yours like? Household, I mean, not grocers. I asked Andy Taylor about you but he didn’t tell me if there was a soon-to-be Mr Keaps with a sweet tooth around and about.’
May felt a flush creep up her neck. She wasn’t sure whether it was at his direct approach or her consciousness of her spinsterhood.
‘There was someone once. An old friend. We grew up together and had... an understanding I suppose is the best way of putting it. He was killed in France.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry.’
He looked genuinely pained at causing her to have to say that.
‘Don’t be. And you’ll be out of compassion pretty quickly if you keep on reacting like that whenever someone tells you about who they lov... cared for and lost. Everyone around here has something of a list.’ She took another sip of her drink.
‘So, how long have you been at the coroner’s court?’
She was grateful he’d picked up on her need to change the subject.
‘Almost eighteen months. Before that I was driving ambulances in France, and before that, I worked in the tobacco factory. You could say I was in the right place at the right time to get this job because, being a mere woman, if it wasn’t for the War I wouldn’t even have been considered. But the coroner’s officer isn’t a legally constituted position so Colonel Tindal can have whoever he likes; my predecessor was the undertaker in the High Street.’
‘Handy that, I’d have thought. Cut out the middle man - or woman.’
May didn’t smile; Jack could tease her about a lot of things, but not the importance of her job. His flippancy deserved a short version of the lecture she’d delivered in the library to the Workers’ Education Group.
‘We do all the investigations necessary into establishing how, and in what manner, someone dies. If it turns out that it was at the hand of another then it’s the testimony we gather that forms much of the evidence at somewhere like the Old Bailey. We’re the first port of call so to speak, a sort of sifting process. And the coroner has a lot of power. If Colonel Tindal decides to indict someone for murder then no High Court Judge can reduce it to manslaughter. And I’m the one who sets the ball rolling.’
May expected Jack’s eyes to have glazed over by now but he was leaning forward in his chair, seemingly fascinated. And, she was pleased to see, impressed.
‘I tip every hat I’ve ever owned to you, Miss Keaps. I wouldn’t do it for all the tea in China. Give me a job with the living any day.’
‘I’m only ever in the mortuary for the first viewing, after that it’s mainly talking to people to find out what happened.’
She took off her cardigan and folded it across her lap. The band had begun to play and the number of people dancing had raised the temperature markedly. She kept her gloves on though.
‘Are you the only female coroner’s officer?’
‘I didn’t see any others when they last reissued the list but it could’ve changed by now. I hope it has because it’s about time men accepted we can do things equally as well. Women are to be on juries later this year. God, I hate to think how Colonel Tindal will react; oh well, he’ll just have to move with the times or go the way of the other dinosaurs.’
Except May knew he’d make her life hell in the process. But she didn’t want to think about that, it was too close to re-opening her decision not to report him.
‘Doesn’t dogging the steps of a killer put the wind up you?’
‘Despite the sensationalist headlines, premeditated murder doesn’t happen all that often. My first inquest involved two boys playing with knives and one tripped and stabbed his friend.’
‘But there are some bona fide slaughterers out there, right?’
Was his unwillingness to let it go down to his newspaperman’s instincts to find out what made her tick or a prurient interest in the macabre? May trusted Jack didn’t think they were one and the same thing or she would definitely have something better to do the next time he asked her out.
‘You weren’t involved so can’t possibly know what it was like but when you’ve been surrounded by as much death and carnage as I have - imagine falling over a pile of amputated limbs outside the operating tent in a front line field hosp
ital...’ It gave her satisfaction to see him grimace. ‘...then you’ll get the idea.’ She unconsciously knitted her fingers as if to feel her hands were still there. ‘Most of us who survived stuff like that become fatalistic - you know, if the bullet’s got your name on it then your time is up; if not, then you live to fight another day. Worrying about which way it will go changes nothing.’
‘Interesting. So you’re a gambler at heart.’
May raised an eyebrow. ‘I suppose you could say that. Not brave, certainly. But not fearful either. More... resigned.’
‘I doubt you’ll be so cavalier about your own safety when children come along. I assume you’d like them to, right?’
‘What woman doesn’t? And you?’
‘I don’t really see myself as a family man. But I expect I will settle down one day. Everyone does in the end.’
May wondered if that was true. Settling had always seemed such a bleak concept to her: the unspoken words for second best rang too loudly for her to ignore them.
‘I seem to have been talking about myself for hours. What about you? How’s life at the East End News?’
‘Oh, fair to middling. He leaned forward and squinted at her over the top of his glasses. ‘Can you keep a secret?’
‘Probably much better than you.’
‘Touché. It’s never a dull moment with you, is it? I’m working on the big break story every newspaperman dreams about.’
‘Isn’t it a bit early for that? I thought you’d only just started.’
‘Contrary to popular opinion, the grass grows just as quickly over here as it does in Ireland. I’ve been doing my research like a good New Boy and there’s been a recent exponential increase in the influence of gambling on ordinary East End life.’
‘That old chestnut? There are much worse things going on you could be writing about: overcrowding and disease for example. Why don’t you come up with a solution to those if you want to make a name for yourself?’