by Clare Harvey
‘But you’re not English?’
‘No, I’m Polish.’ He gestured at some badge on his RAF uniform, as if she were stupid. He handed her back the flask and she took another swig. It must have been very strong, because she was already beginning to feel pleasantly hazy, despite his rudeness.
‘Flying tomorrow?’ she said. He shook his head, taking the flask back from her.
‘Not until I’m posted,’ he said, and when she asked him where he was off to, he said he probably shouldn’t be telling her, but it was RAF Northolt. He looked proud when he said it, as if it meant something important, but when she said she had no idea where Northolt was, he laughed, and admitted he didn’t know either. They passed the flask again between them.
‘And then you’ll start flying sorties?’ she said. He nodded. ‘You must be looking forward to it.’ He didn’t answer.
Her cigarette was almost finished now, so she supposed she should go down to join the others. She stubbed it out between the banisters.
‘I should get back,’ she said, standing up. ‘And you should come, too. Won’t your pals be missing you?’ She held out a hand to help him up. He took it, and his palm was warm and soft.
‘I’m scared as hell,’ he said, then, in a low voice. She watched his still-lit fag roll off the edge of the step, where he’d dropped it.
She squeezed his hand. ‘You’re trained. You know what you’re doing. You’ll be fine.’ He kept holding her hand, not looking at her. He shook his head, but he didn’t say anything. ‘You’ll be fine,’ she repeated.
‘Fifty-fifty,’ he said, now, looking up at her, eyes red-rimmed, mouth cutting strange shapes as he spoke in a hoarse mutter. ‘Those are the odds. I’d be better off playing Russian roulette.’
Then he started to sob, shoulders heaving, tears falling like the large drops of rain before a thunderstorm – except there was no sound, just the pat-pat of those fat drops on the stair. ‘Come on,’ she said, pulling him upwards. ‘Come to my room. You can have a glass of water and wash your face. You’ll feel better then.’
He let himself be tugged up, and she began to lead him back along the long corridor to room 179, right at the far end, by the fire escape. Her room, where they wouldn’t be disturbed.
George
‘Good evening, Mr Handford.’ The voice broke him from his reverie. He’d been watching the glitter ball rotating in the ceiling, noticing how the spangles of light fanned out. It reminded him of the sunlight on the water at Trent Lock. He’d been thinking that soon it would be warm enough to get the dinghy out on the river again.
He turned to acknowledge the greeting. It took him a moment to register the face. Without the workplace headgear her hair fell in dark waves, softening her angular features. ‘Good evening, Miss Fitzlord,’ he replied. He waited for her to start a conversation, the way women seemed to feel the need to – something about the weather, how the new recruits were settling in, or the good news about Tunisia – but she simply sipped her glass of lemonade and stood next to him, looking out onto the half-empty dance floor, where dancers twirled lazily, whilst the band’s string section sawed out a waltz. Old Harry Tonks had some poor woman grasped up against his beer belly, but the couples were mostly girl-girl pairings due to the lack of men. They wafted the combined scent of Woolworth’s perfume and desperation into the air as they shuffled past.
George cleared his throat and pulled his pipe from his pocket as the music came to a close. At least he didn’t smoke cigarettes, wouldn’t be expected to offer Miss Fitzlord one, light it for her, all that nonsense. He pulled out his tobacco tin and began to stuff the pipe bowl. The double doors at the far end of the hall stuttered open-close as people pushed their way through to the refreshment table in the lobby.
‘Poor things. Matron promised them airmen, and all they’ve got is Mr Tonks, and . . .’ She paused. He thought she was going to say ‘and you’ and start to berate him for not asking a single one of the girls to dance. ‘. . . and that must be a little disappointing,’ she said. He put the pipe stem in his mouth as she continued. ‘Perhaps they’ll perk up when the coach arrives from Hucknall.’ He nodded and clicked his lighter. He glimpsed her through the flame as he sucked the tobacco alight. Her features were very definite: sharp nose, dark brows – not what you’d call feminine, but interesting. He pulled the fragrant smoke into his lungs and felt the warmth in his chest. The band leader was taking his time about announcing the next number, and Miss Fitzlord didn’t show any signs of moving away.
‘What brings you here, Miss Fitzlord?’ A foolish thing to say. He wished he’d kept his mouth shut.
‘Matron likes me to attend,’ she said. ‘In any case, it doesn’t do any harm for the welfare supervisor to be visible at these events. It helps them to know my face, know who to come to if they have any concerns.’
‘Indeed.’ He nodded.
‘And you, Mr Handford? I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of your company at a hostel hop before?’ What was that? A slight tilt of her head, the upward inflection of her voice – could it be sarcasm?
‘The new initiative. At the last Board meeting it was decided that having a member of senior management attend staff functions would foster team spirit, boost morale, and so forth.’
‘Doing your bit for the war effort, then?’
‘Something like that.’ He chewed on his pipe stem. Up on the dais the band leader was approaching the microphone. At long last – some music to fill the uncomfortable silence. But would Miss Fitzlord expect him to ask her to dance? He hoped to God not. His neck seemed to be swelling under the starched collar. He jutted out his chin to try to ease the sensation.
Just then there was a sound of male voices in the lobby, scuffling footsteps, an excited female squeal. The band leader paused, baton raised, as the hall doors flung open and a blue-grey tidal wave of airmen engulfed the dance floor, and along with them the swirling frocks of the girls, like multi-coloured flotsam. The band leader grinned, cleared his throat and announced a foxtrot. George clenched his pipe stem between his teeth, and the band started up.
The dance floor was full now: twirling bodies, smiling faces. George took a step back to avoid the worst of the crush, but as he did so he was shunted backwards by a couple who’d broken into an impromptu jitterbug, and he accidentally shoved Miss Fitzlord, causing her to tip the lemonade glass that was halfway to her lips. ‘I’m terribly sorry,’ he said, mortified at the sight of the spillage, a port-coloured damp-patch on the wine-red dress. He couldn’t even offer to wipe it up – it had spilled just where her left breast swelled against the cloth. The jitterbugging couple hadn’t even noticed.
‘It’s fine.’ She’d put down her glass and was mopping herself with a handkerchief.
‘The very least I can do is buy you a replacement.’ He had to raise his voice above the din.
‘How kind.’
‘Not at all.’
They began to nudge their way round the edge of the hall to the double doors. Once they’d reached the lobby he went to the refreshment table and asked Matron for two lemonades. He tapped the remaining ash from his pipe in the metal ashtray on the counter and put his pipe back in his pocket.
‘Blue uniforms causing the usual hysteria?’ Matron nodded her grey curls in the direction of the hall as she ladled out the lemonade.
‘Bedlam.’ He handed over tuppence for the drinks. Airmen were still trickling in through the front door, some already with their arms round the factory girls. They had the glazed-eyed, ruddy-faced look of lads who’d been in the pub all afternoon. ‘Still, if it keeps the workforce happy. Happy workers are productive workers, so they keep telling me. Thank you, Matron.’
He picked up the glasses and turned. Miss Fitzlord was just beside him. ‘Thank you for the replacement,’ she said.
‘The very least I could do, and I’m sorry again.’
‘Not at all – it wasn’t your fault, was it?’ She smiled as she took the glass from him. And when she
smiled her eyes glinted. How dark they were, like chips of onyx. You could barely tell where the pupil ended and the iris began. He looked away, took a sip of lemonade, shifted sideways so that other people could get their drinks.
He noticed a couple stealing a kiss, behind one of the concrete pillars that supported the stairwell.
There was a sensation inside him, like mercury rising up a barometer. ‘I say, I’m feeling rather warm. I think I’ll head outside for some fresh air.’
‘Good idea.’
He hadn’t asked her to join him, and yet here she was, sat with him on the bench, looking out over the shadowy fields. She’d put down her glass and taken out a packet of cigarettes and offered them to him. And he found himself taking one, in preference to his pipe. She’d struck a match before he had a chance to get out his lighter, so he leant into the flame. He tried to remember the last time he’d had a cigarette: not since his army days, probably. The smoke was different – lighter – and the cigarette butt was soft against his lips.
‘How is it, being back on the tools?’ he said, breaking the silence, remembering how she’d taken the place of the girl who’d gone off to have a baby.
She exhaled before replying. ‘Hard work, if I’m honest, with the welfare supervisor role as well.’
‘I can get someone else in, you know.’
‘And keep the job open for Miss McLaughlin?’
‘That’s not possible, I’m afraid.’
‘Then I’ll stick with it, if it’s all the same to you.’
‘So long as we meet our production targets, that’s my only concern.’
‘Yes, that’s what I heard.’ She spoke in a low voice, almost a mutter, her head turned away as she exhaled.
‘I’m sorry, I’m not sure what you mean?’
‘Oh, nothing.’
He looked out to the flat farmland and spiky telegraph poles. The sun had already set, but it wasn’t quite dark: a hint of purplish red at the horizon. Her red dress was a burgundy in the twilight. He noticed her shiver. ‘Would you like my jacket?’
‘That’s kind of you, but no, thank you. I should be getting back inside, anyway. Matron likes to have me on hand, just in case.’ She stood up, picking up her lemonade, leaving empty air in the space beside him on the bench.
‘In case of what?’ He stood up, too.
‘Moral issues.’ She raised an eyebrow. He thought of the airmen with their arms round the factory girls, the stolen kiss he’d glimpsed in the lobby. And that feeling came again, like an upward trickle of quicksilver.
‘I think I’ll stay out here a while longer,’ he said, realising as he did so that she hadn’t asked him to join her back indoors.
‘Perhaps I’ll see you later, then, Mr Handford,’ she said.
‘George,’ he said. ‘You can call me George, if you like, outside work, of course.’
‘But I thought we’d established that this is work. You said yourself, you’re only here to boost staff morale in an attempt to hit production targets.’ She flicked ash from her cigarette and looked at him. She was tall, her eyes almost on a level with his.
He cleared his throat. ‘Quite so. Good evening, Miss Fitzlord.’
She turned away and he watched her walk back to the hostel, heard a faint blast of band music as the door opened and closed, and she was swallowed up inside. He checked his watch, dropped the remains of the cigarette and ground it out on the kerb. He drained the last of the tepid lemonade from the glass. He should return it, really, but to go back inside, now? No, he’d made his presence known, that was good enough. There were plenty of men there now; nobody would miss him. He thought for a moment of Miss Fitzlord’s face, tilted questioningly towards him.
No, nobody would notice him gone.
He went over to his car and slid inside. Thank God for his extra petrol coupon allocation; he could come and go to work events almost as he chose. He turned the key in the ignition and flicked on the blinkered headlights. As he pulled away he noticed one light on in an upstairs hostel window. Some girl had ignored blackout. Well, that wasn’t on. He’d have to have a word with Matron. Perhaps he could ask Miss Fitzlord to pass a message, catch her after her shift? No, silly idea. He drove on. There was no need for him to have anything more to do with Miss Fitzlord, was there?
Violet
‘Cigarette?’ she said. He nodded, looking up at her from the bottom bunk where he sat, dry-eyed now. She’d managed to get two packets of Player’s before they sold out in the hostel shop on wages day. She lit one and passed it down to him, noticing how his hand shook as he took it. His hair was mussed up from where he’d had his head in his hands, and there were teardrops, like rain spatters, on the thighs of his trousers. He’d finished the water already, and put the glass down on the floor beside him.
‘Feel any better?’ She watched him inhale. The room dipped and slid in her peripheral vision, like when you’ve just got off a fairground ride. It was strong, that vodka of his. She slumped down next to him on the bed.
‘You must think I’m a coward,’ he muttered, not looking at her.
‘Don’t be daft. I bet the others feel the same as you.’ He smelled nice, she thought, feeling his thigh, warm against hers. Close up, there were the scents of smoke and laundry soap and Brylcreem and maleness, all mixed up. She took a long drag. It made her feel even more muzzy round the edges.
‘I don’t want to die.’
‘Of course you don’t.’
‘No, I mean I don’t want to die like this, without having a girlfriend. I’m not even a man.’
‘Course you are – you’re old enough to fly a plane, right?’ She exhaled.
‘You know what I mean.’
He turned to face her, then, and although his eyes were still red-rimmed from crying there was something else there, a hardness. She knew that look. The same look Frank had had, that night. She sucked in some smoke, shifted a quarter-inch away from him so their thighs no longer touched. ‘Don’t worry, pal, you’ll soon have plenty of girlfriends. All the girls are after a pilot!’ She laughed, a funny kind of high-pitched laugh, and smoke came out in puffs. But he was still looking at her in that way. And then he took her fag and tossed it, with his own, into the tumbler. The still-lit butts fizzed and smouldered together in the dregs of water, turning it brown.
Vi knew how it looked. She’d accepted a drink and a smoke from him, and invited him back to her room. But she’d only done it because she felt sorry for him, not because – but now his lips were on hers, his wet tongue shoving into her mouth, and he tasted of smoke and vodka and toothpaste. And it was like at the fair, when you’re on the waltzers, and everything spins, and you want to scream and you don’t know if it’s because you’re having fun or because you’re scared witless, but you just know that it’s fast and urgent and it’s too late to get off.
Too late to get off.
His hands pushed her back onto the mattress, pulled up her skirt. His mouth was on hers, stopping her from making a sound. His tongue inside her mouth, a hand up past her garter belt, shoving at her knickers. She felt him – there, inside, suddenly: a swish of cloth, a rhythmic thud-thud of the bedstead against the wall. She pulled her mouth from his and his lips worked their way down one side of her neck. She could have screamed, then, pushed him off. But she didn’t. She arched her back and let him plunge deeper into her. Because in that moment – only in that moment – it felt good, and right, and better than anything else. ‘Don’t let the kettle boil,’ she gasped, because he’d know what she meant, wouldn’t he? But he carried on, and the thuds got quicker and she looked up at him, rearing above her, eyes narrowed, hair falling forward, pushing himself into her. ‘For God’s sake, don’t go all the way to Blackpool!’ she said. But as she did so, he grunted, heaved forwards onto her, and she knew it was too late.
Afterwards, she made him leave by the fire exit so nobody would know. He gave her a clumsy kiss before he went, but neither of them suggested exchanging addresses or becoming p
en pals.
‘Good luck,’ she said, as he closed the door on his way out. But she didn’t say it very loudly, and she doubted he’d heard.
The room was still shifting, and she felt a faint nausea rising as she tossed the brown-drowned fag ends from the tumbler out of the window. She could hear the airman clanging down the fire escape. A car growled up the road away from the hostel, headlights flickering over the countryside: flat and empty, the same as she felt.
She shut the window and fastened the blackouts. Then she rinsed the glass again and again under the tap, even though she knew she’d always get a sour taste in her mouth from that glass, no matter how many times she cleaned it.
Because the kettle had boiled, and the train had gone all the way to Blackpool. Oh heck.
Chapter 7
Zelah
The peas were hard and the gravy was burnt. Zelah put down her knife and fork. No point complaining. Like it or lump it, Mrs Hoyden would say, standing behind the canteen, brandishing her ladle like a policeman’s truncheon. In any case, she hadn’t the energy, Zelah thought, yawning.
She was back on nights, covering Mary McLaughlin’s shift pattern, but she’d been up earlier in the afternoon because Agnes Donoghue got a telegram about her ill mother and there were telephone calls to make, compassionate leave forms to fill in and train tickets to sort out. She couldn’t have had more than five hours’ sleep, at most.
Zelah could hear the scrape of metal against china and the murmur of voices. The big hand on the clock above the canteen jerked forwards. Quarter past already. She’d have to be back on her lathe at half past. Pale faces masticated, smoke drifted ceilingwards, a group at the next table began a half-hearted game of rummy – they’d never finish before the bell went. Someone waved a packet of Player’s in her direction. Zelah smiled but shook her head. In the time it took to smoke a cigarette she could grab a few minutes of shut-eye.
She pushed her greasy plate to one side and laid a head on her arm, letting the muted clatter-chatter of the night-shift dinner cocoon her. ‘The Gestapo’s on the prowl,’ she heard Mary McLaughlin’s room-mate (Violet Smith, wasn’t it?) mutter, but Zelah took no notice. She closed her eyes and immediately her thoughts swirled, images chasing each other in the race to unconsciousness. There was the shattering sound of the cutlery tray being tipped over, and the thudding sound of Mrs Hoyden’s ladle on the soup tureen, and Zelah was transported back to that night, just before it happened: