Too Many Heroes

by Jan Turk Petrie

  Today was a slightly better day than the one before it and the one before that. It’s the hours after work that make the time drag. The nights are worst. She’s used to lying there with her brain buzzing like a load of bees are flying round and round but finding no way out.

  Usually she finds it cheering to witness the energy the kids in the street put into everything they do – even squabbling. Earlier, the boys were cowboys and they’d corralled several girls and told them they were Red Indians; even tied them up loosely with their own skipping rope. Quite rightly, the girls rebelled, couple of them grabbed the rope and began to skip with it.

  ‘You kids better keep that racket down!’ a man’s voice shouts though she can’t see them. The quarrelling boys abandon their game and start shooting at the girls with two pointing fingers. ‘Pwew! Pwew!’ The girls stop their skipping to retaliate.

  The commotion escalates and now the whole lot are joining in; making such a din she expects their various mothers to start the chorus of yells that will send them indoors.

  She’s about to close the window on their noise when she sees Dot coming round the corner looking red-faced and clutching something like her life might depend on it.

  ‘Grace!’ she cries out above the uproar. She holds her hand up. ‘You’ve got a telegram.’ Her urgency makes the kids stop what they’re doing to see what the fuss might be about.

  She runs downstairs to meet her on the doorstep. ‘It was sent to our house,’ Dot says, breathing hard. ‘Look.’ She thrusts a flimsy piece of paper into her hands.

  With shaking fingers, Grace opens it right there in the street.

  GRACE STOP. ARRIVED IN MELBOURNE STOP. SORRY FOR EVERYTHING STOP. WILL WRITE LOVE FRANK STOP

  ‘Frank’s made it to Australia,’ she says, holding the flimsy piece of paper to her chest. ‘Oh, my good Lord! I can’t believe he’s managed to escape the lot of them.’

  Dot stares at her. ‘So you’re pleased?’

  ‘Course I am.’ She reads the words again. ‘If they’d caught him, they would have strung him up for certain.’ She folds the telegram carefully then stuffs it into her pocket. ‘Out there he can start a new life in a new country. No lookin’ back. You don’t look too happy about it?’

  She can’t hold back the tears. Dot puts her arms around her and she sobs into her chest. ‘It’s just because –’

  ‘Because what?’

  She takes a deep breath. ‘Now I know for certain Frank’s never goin’ to be comin’ back. I’m goin’ to have to do everythin’ on my own.’

  Dot pushes her away, holds her at arm’s length. ‘Listen to me, Grace Stevenson, you’re not by yourself. Whether you like it or not, you’ve got me an’ you got our mum an’ dad for starters. I won’t say anythin’ about your mam because we all know she’s utterly bloody useless.’

  The children have crept up behind Dot. ‘Bugger off,’ Grace shouts, and for a moment she sees Dot thinking she’s talking to her. They both turn on the kids and try to shoo them away. They only take a few steps back. For them, this is just a game like grandma’s footsteps.

  ‘Let’s go inside,’ she says.

  Once they’re up in her sitting room, Grace puts the telegram down on the table next to the wedding photo of her and Dennis and goes over to get her hanky from her handbag.

  ‘It’s not really her fault, you know,’ she says, before blowing her nose again. ‘I don’t think Elsie was ready to be a mother.’

  Dot folds her arms across her chest. ‘Well, whatever excuse you want to make for your mam, if you ask me, she could have tried a lot bloody harder.’

  ‘What is it they say in the bible? It’s something like: judge not, lest ye be judged.’

  Frowning at her, Dot says: ‘I know you’re a widow an’ things have bin a bit awful for you lately, but you’re not goin’ to come over all religious, are ya?’

  Grace folds her hanky and puts it up her sleeve. ‘Would it be so terrible if I did?’

  Dot shrugs. ‘I’d still be your friend – as long as you didn’t keep bangin’ on about God every couple of minutes.’

  ‘Grace pulls a stray hair back from her face and clips it in place. ‘D’you know what I’m going to do first thing tomorrow?’

  Dot raises an eyebrow at her. ‘Go down to St John’s and throw yourself at that Reverend Sawyer’s feet?’

  She can’t help but smile. ‘As it happens, I’m going to lose half a day’s pay so I can go down to that police station and have a word with Inspector Collingwood.’

  ‘What was that other saying from the bible: vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord.’

  Grace shrugs. ‘Since when did anybody take any notice of that?’

  Thursday 21st August

  The station is busy. She’s directed to a long bench and told to wait. The people already sitting on it are reluctant to budge up, so she stays standing.

  A scruffy looking bloke is led out past them. ‘You need to sort yourself out.’ The copper at his side makes no effort to speak quietly. The stench of booze and stale urine spreads out into the room and she wonders if she’s going to be sick. ‘I don’t want to see you in here again, d’you hear me?’ The bloke meekly nods his head at the copper, his hair a tangled mess that can’t have seen a brush for months.

  The woman next to her gathers herself up like whatever the poor man’s got might be catching.

  It’s well past nine when Collingwood deigns to see her. A young, lanky constable ushers her along a corridor to a door with the inspector’s name across it. His knock is so quiet she wonders whether Collinwood can have heard.

  ‘Come,’ he says – like it wastes his precious time to add an in.

  The inspector gets to his feet. ‘Thank you, PC Baines.’ The constable shuts the door behind her sealing them in together. The room smells of furniture polish and tobacco smoke. The lights are on due to the fact that there’s only one small window. His desk is stacked high with files – police business must be booming.

  Collingwood sits back down in his padded leather chair behind his posh desk. On the leather-bound writing pad in front of him there are lots of black ink doodles –all of them are spirals. ‘Won’t you take a seat, Mrs Stevenson? I must say I’m surprised to see you here.’ There’s only a hard chair to choose from. Knitting his hands together on the table in front of her, the inspector says, ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘I’ve got something to show you.’ Her hands are shaking as she unclips her handbag and takes out the telegram. ‘This was sent to the Westons’ house addressed to me.’ She offers it up to his pincer-like grasp.

  Collingwood’s face shows no emotion though his neck reddens and he starts rubbing at his temple with his free hand. She’s seen Frank make that same gesture when he’s thinking. Banishing that train of thought, she watches the man in front of her read the telegram over again just to take it in, even turns it over to be certain it’s not a fake.

  The next minute, he’s on his feet and walking towards the window. ‘I have to admit it looks genuine enough.’

  ‘It seems Frank’s gone an’ eluded you all over again,’ Grace says.

  He turns on her, a thick vein like a worm standing out in the middle of his forehead. ‘You seem delighted, triumphant even, yet this is the same wretched man who murdered your own husband.’

  ‘I don’t believe that – not for one single second.’ She stands up. ‘Frank had nothing to do with Dennis’s death. Trouble is, you lot can’t see further than the end of yer own ruddy noses.’

  She walks over to him daring his dark eyes to turn that fury on her. ‘You know,’ she says. ‘In your case, if you didn’t keep your ruddy nose of yours so far up in the air, you might find out a bit more about what’s goin’ on right underneath it.’

  Not breaking her gaze, she waits for a response. When it doesn’t come, she turns and walks towards the door.

  ‘I really thought there might be hope for you, Grace Stevenson,’ he says, from behind her back. ‘But now I ca
n see that charming face of yours is a mere mask to hide how morally corrupt you really are.’

  She makes no reply. Instead she opens the door, walks through it and slams it shut behind her.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Saturday 6th September

  The Underground is a little less stifling now the weather’s on the turn. At Victoria, Grace has to hurry to catch the Brighton train. Being a Saturday, it’s busy and she’s dead lucky to get a seat in one of the carriages next to the window. A cheerful chap insists on putting her case into the overhead rack for her.

  It takes her a while to catch her breath. Sitting opposite her, there’s a young boy sandwiched between his parents. Before the guard’s whistle blows, he’s already squirming around. After that he starts to jiggle one leg so his foot keeps knocking his mother’s shoe. Not content with that, he’s soon sending his yo-yo up and down, up and down, on and on until Grace is forced to look away from all the boy’s spinning and wriggling.

  She hasn’t seen her own mother since the funeral and that wasn’t for long. Elsie – she finds herself using her mother’s first name more often these days – had stayed less than an hour at the sad get-together they’d had afterwards in an upstairs room at the King’s Head. She’d been fretting about the trains. ‘Must get back,’ she’d said more than once despite the offer of a bed for the night. Their little gathering hadn’t done the man justice – not by a longshot.

  Ralf and Lottie had suggested they hold the wake in the Eight Bells, but Grace had soon put a stop to that idea. She didn’t imagine many locals would have the courage to show their face considering its new management. Who could blame them? She heard a few days later that the likes of Wilf, Bert, Charlie and Harry Jones had nonetheless gone there that same evening and raised a few glasses to Dennis. She was pleased to hear it even if it did put more money into the coffers of the very man responsible for his death.

  Grace’s thoughts are all over the place today. There’s a warm breeze coming through the open window. It’s no use dwelling on the past. Instead she tries to concentrate on the beauty of the open countryside as it slips past. All that space out there is hard to take in when you’ve spent your life in a crowded borough in a swarming city.

  The little boy’s father lights up his pipe and she watches the curls of smoke float up to the ceiling. For a change, the smell of tobacco doesn’t set her stomach off.

  Grace’s mother had at least written to her – a surprisingly nice letter in which she’d tried to say all the right things. How could Elsie have known they were all the wrong things?

  The movement of the train feels less soothing now and Grace opens her handbag and takes out the small tin she’s filled with Jacob’s Crackers. She’s learnt that nibbling on one usually does the trick.

  It’s so odd to be heading down to Brighton again. Hard to fathom how much has happened since she’d arrived there back in May half expecting she’d be burying Elsie before long. Who would have thought the person she’d be burying would be Dennis?

  At last she can see the South Downs. Despite the way the train is swaying, she goes to stand in the corridor to get a better view of those hills. Steam is pouring the length of the carriages and settling like mist over the landscape being left behind. Grace can taste the smoke in the air but at least it doesn’t make her retch. She glimpses a tractor ploughing a field; a cloud of flapping birds following on behind. It looks like some giant brush is busy painting the landscape, turning it from sun-bleached yellow to various shades of brown. Way up in the deep blueness of the sky, seagulls turn in the air. How wonderful must it feel to be so utterly free like that?

  Her thoughts turn to journey’s end. Although her mother had invited her down, Grace is unsure what kind of reception she’ll get. That’s the thing with Elsie – you never could tell where you were with her. Her mother couldn’t stay the same, was always changing to better suit the man she happened to be with. She ought to feel sorry for her in a way, for the fact that she can’t abide to be by herself without a chap to validate her existence. As Elsie ages the more trouble she has attracting a man in the first place – never mind hanging onto him.

  Brighton will be quieter now than it was in the summer and some of its gaudy attractions will have packed up and gone off wherever they disappear to until the following spring. Being a sunny Saturday, the beach is likely to be crowded still. At least the water will have warmed up a bit over the summer months. Perhaps this time she can persuade Elsie not to worry about her perm or how the pebbles hurt her feet to come in for a dip with her.

  Grace’s hand goes down to her belly. There’s one thing, at least, that she’s certain about – she’ll learn by her mother’s example and make sure she makes a better job of being someone’s mother.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Monday 8th September

  There’s a stiff breeze coming off the sea; when she steps outside it threatens to tear her headscarf right off her head. Her mother’s raincoat already seems a tighter fit than it used to, and she can feel the wind sneaking in between the buttons.

  It’s only a few minutes’ walk to the bus stop. When the bus finally arrives, she chooses a seat on the upper deck for the view and so she can see everyone that’s getting on and off.

  The conductor’s head appears and then the rest of him. Just climbing the stairs has made him unnaturally red in the face. ‘Fares please,’ he calls, breathless. While buying a ticket to Lewes, she asks him about the various connecting buses and it’s worse than she’d thought – she’ll have to change three times before she gets anywhere near the place.

  By the time Grace steps down into the centre of the little village it’s approaching midday. Away from the coast, that biting wind has dropped and it’s turned into a warm day. What a sight it is to see all those old black and white houses, their front gardens crowded with late flowers – she’s only ever seen such places on biscuit tins or jigsaw puzzles.

  She walks into the only pub. Its small leaded windows mean the room is darker and far cooler than outside; there’s even a log fire crackling in the huge stone fireplace. When she asks for orange pop, the young barman frowns. He looks her up and down as he hands her the bottle with a straw sticking out of it like you might give a little kid. She doesn’t bother to ask for a glass.

  The place is empty apart from a couple of old boys smoking long-stemmed pipes, staring into the fire and hardly saying a word to each other. Maybe there’s not much to talk about in such a sleepy place. Noticing her, the old men turn to eye her with suspicion. It takes a while before they turn their attention back to the flames.

  Grace takes her drink over to one of the window seats. She stares out into the road and studies every car driving by. In the space of half an hour one or two people walk past the window but no one else comes in.

  She finishes her drink and walks through to the ladies’ out the back. Once inside the cubicle, she opens her shopping bag, takes out a different coloured scarf and ties it over her hair. Finally, she turns Elsie’s raincoat inside out. (Look, you get two macs for the price of one, her mother had once demonstrated as if it was a magic trick.)

  Grace leaves by the back gate taking the footpath running alongside a stubble field to the village graveyard at the top. The church looks a bit isolated from the community it serves – perhaps they felt more comfortable keeping the C of E at a distance. There’s an old bench out front that’s facing the way she’s just come; it offers her a good view of anything or anybody coming up the hill.

  The day goes on around her. Two, then three rabbits emerge from under the hedge and start nibbling the grassy mound of a grave. It’s hard to think about how some poor soul was laid to rest underneath there. Big black birds that could be crows or rooks are squawking and squabbling in the trees above her head.

  Her stomach rumbles then growls like an angry bear. She nibbles on a cream cracker, leaves it a few more minutes until she feels confident enough to leave the churchyard and takes the narrow l
ane to her right. From there it’s supposed to be no more than a mile of easy walking.

  They’re all too hard at it to notice her arrival. Working in a pub, she’s used to the smell of hops, though freshly picked like these, there’s nothing stale about them. The bitter-sweet scent of them overwhelms the air. Being a weekday, the workers are mostly women with their older children, all of them chatting away in broad Cockney. Youngsters are rushing around being scolded from time to time for getting under people’s feet. A tractor arrives, its cart brimming over with long strings of green flowers.

  She’s heard it said they call these hop gardens – for some reason you should never ever call it a field. Behind the group of women, there are lines and lines of upright wooden poles stretching on up to the horizon. Plants are growing up these poles and along the strings across the top making shady patches underneath. From a distance they look more like grapevines.

  The women are sweating in the heat, their hands flying as they strip the hops off each stem into the enormous sacks below. The flowers themselves look a bit like pale green raspberries. Every so often, one or two flower heads go astray but they’re working too fast to pick them up.

  Seeing how her sack is now full to overflowing, one woman bawls out: ‘Eh, Jack!’ Next thing, a bare-chested young bloke comes along with an empty sack and carries the full one off to be weighed from a big metal hook.

  A middle-aged man in shirtsleeves is walking towards her. ‘You here looking for work, darlin’?’ He’s wearing a red spotted scarf round his neck but the front of his shirt is open and she can see the sweat running between the greying hairs on his chest.

  Grace frowns. ‘Not exactly, no.’ She clears her throat. ‘I’m looking for –’

  ‘She’s looking for me.’

  Frank is standing not two feet away with his arms folded and a smile playing on his lips. He looks quite different from what she’d expected – he’s wearing thick-rimmed glasses and his shorn hair has lost all the blonde bits on the ends. A couple of hop flowers are still clinging to the back of his head and, across his upper lip, there’s a moustache she instantly has the urge to shave off.