Crooked Heart

by Lissa Evans

‘Delightful,’ said Mrs Gifford, resting a hand briefly on Noel’s head. ‘I have always liked boys. I shall certainly contribute to your cause.’ She plunged a hand into her jacket pocket, and took it out again. Her fist was closed around a mass of coins; one by one she fed them into the collecting box. ‘Delightful,’ she said again, and drifted off.

  ‘Twelve shillings and fourpence,’ said Noel, quietly.

  ‘Twelve . . . ! ’ Vee stared after the woman. ‘Cracked.’

  ‘You don’t know,’ said Noel, fiercely. ‘She might not be, she might be ill, you can’t just say things like that about people.’

  He walked off, in the opposite direction to Mrs Gifford, and after a moment of surprise Vee hurried after him.

  It was an average sort of take. Not counting the early windfall, they made a guinea and ninepence in two hours, calling at every other house, along one side only of selected streets, ringing no more than two bells per house; it was better to keep moving. There were no awkward questions, nothing that Vee couldn’t cope with. ‘You from round here?’ one woman asked.

  ‘Just the other side of Chalk Farm,’ said Vee, vaguely. ‘Thank you kindly for your contribution.’

  In any case, today when people answered their doors, their eyes slid past Noel and Vee and towards the sky.

  ‘They’ll be after Buckingham Palace next,’ said a man with scars on his knuckles. ‘Lord Haw-Haw was saying,’ and he gave them threepence, and a barley sugar for Noel.

  ‘Shall we finish this street and call it a day?’ asked Vee. She was beginning to feel nervy, as if the fear in the air were like cold germs and she was coming down with a dose.

  ‘We’ve got another quarter of an hour,’ said Noel, the sweet clicking between his teeth, ‘at least.’

  ‘Yes, but. . .’

  He was already at the next house, pressing the top bell. Vee followed him reluctantly.

  ‘Just one more, then,’ she said.

  They heard someone singing, a wordless melody coming slowly down the stairs, and then the door opened.

  ‘Lovely to see you again,’ said Mrs Aileen Gifford, extending a hand. ‘We met at Jenny Allstrop’s wedding.’

  She was now wearing a tea-gown with, on one shoulder, a corsage of limp felt roses and on the other, a silver medal on a striped ribbon.

  ‘We’re collecting for the Pilots’ Benevolent Fund,’ said Vee, ‘but you already gave us—’

  ‘Do come in, I’d be delighted to help such a very worthy cause.’

  Mrs Gifford drifted away along the hall.

  ‘Should we?’ mouthed Vee to Noel, but he was already following the woman.

  There were three doors off the hall, and as they passed the third, it opened and a man in a warden’s boiler suit came out, carrying his helmet. He glanced up the stairs after Mrs Gifford, and then gave Vee and Noel a grin. He had a pitted face, and eyes as mild and brown as a heifer’s.

  ‘There goes the living story-book,’ he said, ‘new tale every minute, none of them true. It’s years of –’ he mimed lifting a bottle to his mouth ‘– sent her right round the bend. Came from gentry, too.’ He winked at Vee, and she smiled primly and put a hand on Noel’s shoulder. The man lingered.

  ‘Invited you in, has she?’

  ‘That’s right. She wants to give us a contribution.’

  ‘I wouldn’t go if I was you.’

  ‘Why ever not?’

  ‘Not a good example for the lad, is it?’

  Vee could see Mrs Gifford’s ankles, unstockinged and scaly, disappearing round the corner.

  ‘Thank you, but I’m sure we’ll be all right.’

  She could feel him still watching as they climbed the stairs.

  ‘I was just about to run a duster around when I had a visitor from Venezuela,’ Vee followed the voice up another half-flight.

  ‘It was the sister of my piano tutor, she couldn’t stay long, she left her coat and one or two other items that I haven’t had time to tidy away. And here we are,’ said Mrs Gifford, opening a door. ‘Do come in.’

  Vee hesitated, but Noel stepped forward with apparent eagerness. The room was in shadow, the blackouts fully drawn and only a dim central bulb supplying any light. ‘Lemon wafer?’ asked Mrs Gifford, bending over and moving something that clinked emptily. ‘Or perhaps a macaroon? I’m sure I have some left over from the garden party.’

  ‘I won’t, thanks ever so,’ said Vee. She couldn’t work out what she was looking at. There didn’t, at first sight, appear to be any furniture; rather, the room was filled by a low-level mountain range, a series of gentle foothills surrounding a flat-topped central peak. It was the penetrating smell of mothballs that made her realize they were actually mounds of clothing arranged around a bed.

  ‘Do take a seat,’ said Mrs Gifford, waving a gracious hand as if indicating a choice of chaises longues.

  ‘I won’t, thanks ever so,’ said Vee again, just as Noel said, ‘Thank you.’ He plumped himself down on a pyramid of coats and gave Vee what appeared, in the gloom, to be a reproving look.

  She gave the box a rattle, and spoke rather too loudly. ‘We’re only here to do some collecting. We can’t stay.’

  ‘And I’ll have a macaroon,’ said Noel. ‘That would be very nice.’

  ‘We should go,’ she hissed at him.

  He ignored her.

  There weren’t any macaroons, of course. Mrs Gifford, talking gracious nonsense, burrowed around in the room as urinous smells billowed up beneath the camphor, and Noel sat as rigidly as if he were attending a tea party at Kensington Palace.

  ‘We’ll be missing our train,’ said Vee, trying again. She gave the box another rattle.

  ‘Train train go away,’ recited Mrs Gifford with a light laugh, crouching beside the window. ‘And here it is!’ There was a click and then a prolonged rustling sound, as if she were rifling through autumn leaves. She straightened up with a crumpled piece of paper in her hand, which she passed to Noel. ‘How you’ve grown – as tall as a Scots pine! It must be all the swimming. I expect you’ll need to stock up on tuck when you get back after Michaelmas, won’t you?’

  ‘I expect so,’ he said, huskily.

  ‘All boys like cake, don’t they? And I’ve been saving this one for a very special occasion.’ She slid a hand under the bedclothes and brought out an object swaddled in grey flannel. As she began unwinding, it became clear that the wrapping was actually a suit of long winter underwear, liberally stained. ‘And voila! ’ she said, brandishing the very small Dundee cake at its centre. ‘A slice for all?’

  Vee found herself walking backwards whilst gabbling apologies.

  ‘Shall we see one another at Hamish’s gathering?’ asked Mrs Gifford. ‘I understand it’ll be splendid. That’s if we don’t have another thunderstorm, there was a terrific one just last night.’

  ‘Yes, that’ll be lovely,’ said Vee, ‘pleasure to meet you.’ She pulled at Noel’s arm and he followed reluctantly.

  ‘Bye!’ called Vee, clattering down the stairs. On the first landing, she waited for Noel to catch up. He came slowly, smoothing out the creases in the piece of paper he’d been given by Mrs Gifford, and when he reached Vee, he held it up, level with her eyes.

  It was a twenty-pound note.

  She might have gone on gawping at it for several minutes, her eyes waltzing across the inked curlicues, if, from the hall below, she hadn’t heard a key turn in the lock.

  ‘Handbag, handbag,’ she hissed, urgently, opening it, and Noel refolded the note across a set of old creases, and tucked it next to her compact.

  The front door closed, and then there was silence. Someone was standing in the hall.

  Vee put her finger to her lips and Noel nodded.

  They waited. After what felt like half a year, there was the sudden stamp of boots up the stairs, and round the corner came the warden.

  Vee smiled guiltily. ‘Hello again.’

  ‘Still here?’ he asked. ‘I thought I heard something.’


  ‘We’re just going.’

  ‘Mrs Gifford cough up, did she?’

  ‘Sixpence,’ said Vee, her mouth dry. He wasn’t a policeman, but he had a uniform. And a watchfulness that belied the grin. ‘We have to get going,’ she said. ‘My son wants his tea.’

  ‘Who are you collecting for, anyhow?’

  ‘Dunkirk Widows and—’ She felt, rather than saw, Noel flinch. ‘I mean . . .’

  The warden tilted his head to read the inscription on the box. ‘Pilots’ Benevolent, it says on there.’

  ‘We collect for all sorts.’

  ‘Kind of you.’ He held Vee’s gaze. Beautiful eyes, she caught herself thinking; pity about his skin – he must have been one giant pimple as a youth.

  ‘We like to do our bit,’ she said, trying to look modest and go backwards down the stairs at the same time. ‘I expect you’re busy yourself.’

  ‘Not as busy as Jerry. You from round here?’

  ‘Chalk Farm.’

  ‘Which road?’

  ‘Donald Street. Come on laddie, pilchards on toast for you when we get home.’

  She grasped Noel’s shoulder and steered him down to the hall, and when she risked a look back, the warden was still at the bend of the stairs, but he was looking upwards towards Mrs Gifford’s room.

  Once outside, every bit of her seemed to tremble, panic and excitement combined.

  ‘You heard that rustling noise when she was getting the banknote,’ she said to Noel. ‘There’s more where that came from; she’s stuffed with money, stuffed. And she’s taken to you. If we go back there we—’ She heard a footstep and whipped round, expecting to see the warden hurtling after them, or a copper with a whistle, but it was only a postman, crossing the road.

  She lowered her voice, but she couldn’t stop talking, the words were flying out. ‘We’d only have to go once a fortnight, I expect she’d be glad to see you. It’s a kindness, really, it’s not as if she’s spending it on anything, we’d not be depriving her, though we’d have to stay clear of that fellow, he knows something’s up. Wonder if he works shifts? We could find out, the warden’s post must be round here somewhere, shouldn’t be hard to track it down. Chop chop,’ she said to Noel, giving him a little push; he was moving like someone wading through water. They turned the corner to the bus stop, and there, twenty yards beyond it, was a concrete pill box with a red ‘D’ painted by the door, and outside it a lady warden in overalls, smoking a cigarette and gazing skywards. Ask and thou shalt be given, thought Vee. She parked Noel by a garden gate – didn’t want to be recalled, later, as the woman with the kid who was asking questions – and walked over to the smoker.

  ‘Ever so sorry to bother you,’ she said. ‘I just wanted to check who the warden is for Chetwynd Road.’

  ‘It’s Mac.’

  ‘Mac?’

  ‘Ray McIver. He does four till midnight – wait around for ten minutes and he’ll be here. Or can I help?’ She was blonde with sausage curls and a good figure, but one of her eyes was lower than the other so the curls and the figure wouldn’t ever be more than icing on a rock-cake.

  ‘I was only wondering.’ Vee was already moving away, avoiding questions. ‘Thanks for your help.’

  The bus nosed round the corner.

  ‘Stay away from him,’ said the warden, indistinctly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Bit of advice for you. Stay away from Ray McIver.’ The woman pinched out her fag, and ducked into the pillbox, leaving Vee with her mouth open. Was this – surely not – was this jealousy? Was Sausage Curls viewing her as a rival? She stuck out her hand for the bus and watched her reflection slide into view. You couldn’t see much between the strips of tape on the window, but at least her eyes were on the level and her wave was natural. She tried a smile.

  ‘You getting on?’ asked the conductor. ‘This isn’t a boodwah.’

  It wasn’t until she and Noel were standing on the train, squashed against a compartment door, surrounded by soldiers, that a key difficulty occurred to her. She’d never had a twenty-pound note in her life. What on earth could she do with such a thing? Who might change it for her without asking questions?

  ‘Fag for the lady?’ enquired a corporal.

  ‘Don’t mind if I do.’ She smiled at him as he lit it, and then realized that his other hand was sliding across her rear end. She jerked backwards and crushed his knuckles between her right buttock and the door frame. ‘Oops,’ she said, ‘ever so sorry,’ and he wrenched his hand away and muttered ‘Stringy old bitch’, which sliced her to the marrow.

  She turned her head away and glanced down at Noel. He had his face pressed to the glass and his shoulders were twitching. For a horrid moment she thought he was laughing at her, and then she heard a watery breath.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked. ‘Have you got a pain?’

  He didn’t answer, just went on crying quietly.

  ‘Cheer up,’ she said. ‘We’ll be home soon.’

  Their new flat was much nearer the station than the old – just over the footbridge and down a lane that ran past the Masons’ Hall. Noel cried the whole way home, and their downstairs neighbour Mr Clare, who was arranging paperbacks on a shelf outside his bookshop, asked ‘Whatever’th the matter with Thunny Jim?’

  ‘Tonsils,’ said Vee, opening the next door and pushing Noel in ahead of her. She closed it, shutting them both in the little turnaround at the base of the stairs.

  ‘Now what’s this?’ she asked. ‘You can’t go around bawling. Whatever got you started?’

  His face had lost its usual blankness; he looked like a toddler, features flailing.

  ‘Go on,’ she ordered.

  His words, when they came, were so breathy and broken that she had to bend to catch them.

  ‘I miss Mattie,’ he said.

  ‘Who’s Mattie?’

  ‘My godmother that I lived with.’

  ‘Is that the one in Hampstead, you said her name that first night? The lady doctor?’

  ‘She wasn’t a doctor, she had a PhD. Her thesis was on Thomas Fuller and the origins of wit.’ Speaking seemed to decrease the flow of tears. He lowered himself on to the bottom stair and rested his head on his knees.

  ‘So who were the people I sent the postcard to?’

  ‘Just some people. Mattie’s cousins. I had to go and live with them when she died.’

  ‘And they never replied,’ she said, wonderingly; it was the first time she’d even thought of it. ‘And what made you think of your godmother all of a sudden?’

  Noel squashed his face against his legs. ‘Before Mattie died she got ill,’ he said, his voice muffled. ‘She got senile dementia.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  There was a pause. He licked the salt off his knees. ‘It’s when old people go mad.’

  Madness. Needles and straitjackets. The booby-hatch. Screaming in corridors. She knew what that was like.

  ‘And you were living with her when she started to go . . . you know . . . ?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She thought of Noel sitting amidst the chaos of Mrs Gifford’s room. She remembered his eagerness to enter the house, his composure in the face of the squalor within, and something inside her seemed to twist, and then loosen.

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘you poor lad.’

  For a while, neither of them spoke. From upstairs came a man’s voice, warmly patronizing, talking about indigestion.

  ‘It’s the radio doctor,’ said Vee. ‘Must be nearly half past five. I’ll have to set out supper. You hungry?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Go on. You can have my egg.’

  After a moment, he nodded.

  ‘Good boy,’ she said, ‘up you go, then.’

  7

  The Bull was packed, even though there was a sign at the bar that read ‘No Beer, No Spirits’.

  ‘Not seen you in here for a while,’ said Win Jackson, as Donald sat down with a ginger ale. ‘Someone says to me you’d been done over b
ut I didn’t believe them. I says, “I don’t believe you,” and this chap says, “Honest as I speak, someone’s done Donald Sedge over,” and I says, “I don’t believe you.” Was you, though?’

  ‘Dispute,’ said Donald. ‘Over a lady. You should have seen the other bloke.’ He took a sip. The snug was a riot of Venetian mirror-glass and he could see his own face six times over, from every angle. The bruising had gone, but his nose had only recently re-emerged from its cushion of swelling and it was not the nose that he had known before; it wasn’t deformed or grotesque, but there was an angle to the bridge that was unfamiliar. Donald turned his head from side to side, trying to gauge the effect upon his profile, and then he lit a cigarette and watched himself inhale. He tried to blow the smoke out through his nostrils, but they were still partially blocked, and only a thin jet came squirting out of the left one, like steam from a kettle.

  ‘I never met a tart who was worth a fight,’ said Win, reflectively. ‘She from round here?’

  Donald shook his head.

  ‘Thought as much. When you said that, I thought, “She can’t be from round here, because the tarts round here, they’re not worth a fight.” Got a fag? Ta.’

  ‘Where’s everyone else?’ asked Donald, looking around for the other regulars. He didn’t want to get stuck on his own with the biggest bore in Hertfordshire. ‘Win’ was a nickname, short for ‘Winchester Repeater’; the man would send you crackers in fifteen minutes.

  ‘There are tarts you’d fight for, and tarts you wouldn’t,’ said Win, ‘and the ones round here, you wouldn’t.’

  ‘I said, where’s everyone else? Where’s Cyril Brixley?’

  ‘Cyril’s joined the navy. I said to him, “You can’t swim,” and he said, “They’ll give me a lifebelt.” Can’t hardly believe that, can you? Joined the navy and he can’t even swim. Not a stroke.’

  ‘Frank Collingbourne? Arthur Gee? Harry Stanley?’

  ‘Frank’s gone to Egypt with the Welch Fusiliers. He said, “Don’t tell anyone, it’s a secret, but they’re sending us to Egypt.” I said, “If it’s a secret, why are you telling me?” which had him stumped. Arthur’s navy as well, though he can swim, and Harry’s joined the RAF because he says tarts go for the uniform. I said to him, “What have you joined the RAF for?” and he said—’