by Clare Harvey
‘It’s not far – we’re almost there, now.’
They drove on between lines of tall red-brick houses, peering down, disapproving of the speed they sped along at. There wasn’t much traffic: the odd red bus, delivery boys on bikes, a green army lorry chugging in the opposite direction. Zelah looked at George’s hands as he twisted the steering wheel. He indicated right at a junction, then seemed to change his mind. ‘Maybe we should take the scenic route.’ She saw him smile to himself and they carried straight on when the lights turned green.
She didn’t really know Nottingham at all, Zelah realised. Since she’d been here she’d used her odd days off to catch up on washing, ironing, mending and haircuts. She’d been into the town centre a few times, too, to borrow books from Boots or go to the flicks. Once another girl lent her a bicycle and she cycled along the towpath, past the canal boats, all the way to Trent Lock, where dinghies dipped and swerved across the silvery water like swallows’ wings. But if George Handford were to drop her off now, she’d be completely lost, she thought, as now the car wound uphill through a collage of densely packed backstreets.
‘Here we are.’ He brought the car to a halt in front of a terrace of cream houses. She got out and shut the car door behind her. The sharp air ribboned round her neck and pulled hair across her face. She pushed it away and looked round. They were high up. She could see Nottingham Castle nearby, just a couple of streets away, occupied by the army now – a lacy curl of barbed wire circling the squat stonework. She couldn’t see the ROF from here. It was hidden away in the valley below the castle, but she knew that down in the Meadows the gun factory would be chuntering and humming, the workers checking the clock, willing the shift to end. In the distance the sun was westering, distant furrowed fields were untangling gold chains. She heard the clunk as George shut the car door, the twist of the key in the lock. She turned to look at him. He’d put his trilby back on, but left his trench coat unbuttoned; it tugged like a sail in the breeze. His face was in shadow, but she caught a flash of white as he smiled at her.
‘This way.’ He pointed behind her. She spun round and saw how the terraced houses fell away to reveal a deep chasm in the limestone rock. A set of steps led downwards from the pavement where they’d parked. Where the railings had once been were snaggle-toothed stumps – perhaps they’d been melted down into one of the ingots they used to make the guns, she thought, although they could equally well have ended up as the hull of a battleship or the turret of a tank – and beyond where they would have been was a sheer drop down the seventy-odd feet to the tunnel below.
‘Mind your step – they can be slippery.’ He held out his left hand, and she took it. His palm was warm and dry. ‘I’ll go on the outside, I’m used to them.’ They began to step down, away from the waning day into the dark tunnel. ‘Are you nervous?’
She shook her head. ‘I trust you.’ It was true, she realised, as the air got darker and she could taste the stale dampness of the underground on her tongue. She trusted him. She looked up: ferns clinging to dripping rock, the edges of towering houses, a circle of yellow-grey sky. A pigeon flew across, tracing the diameter.
Once they’d made it down the steps, there was no longer a need to hold hands. But she didn’t let go, and neither did he, and their palms stayed together, close as a secret.
‘Come on.’ A pull at her hand as he led her into the tunnel, which sloped away to their left. The walls were mustard-brown and dank smelling, but as they walked, a patch of light green grew larger and brighter. They were still holding hands, her right in his left, the dig of his wedding band as he tugged her towards the light.
‘Nearly home,’ he said, as they stepped out of the tunnel mouth. Spread out like an extravagant picnic was a scattering of elegant houses, tennis courts, circular parks and ponds. ‘The Park Estate. You can drive in from the other side, but this is the best way to see it for the first time.’
Elm trees swayed. The air was cool on her lips. ‘You live here?’ she said.
‘The white building, over there.’ He pointed with his right hand. ‘I think it was once a coachman’s cottage, back when the big houses were properly staffed – they’re mostly junior officers’ billets these days. D’you see it?’
She squinted, but the lowering sun cast long shadows, and there was more than one white cottage on the opposite hillside. ‘I’m not sure I can make it out.’ They were still holding hands. He moved in close, his whole body almost touching hers as he reached across, pointing. She looked along the length of his arm. The cloth of his coat rubbed against her. She could smell his hair oil, the scent of his skin. His face was so close she could feel the warmth of him.
‘Over there, on the left-hand side, halfway up. Can you see it now?’ She looked where his fingertip lay: a low white house with a slate roof.
She nodded, and, as she did so, felt her cheek graze the roughness of his. ‘Yes, I see it.’
Her hand was in his, his body half-shielding hers, his face so close. ‘I just wanted to bring you here to prove that I’m not hiding a mad woman in the attic, that’s all.’ He dropped his right arm, turned towards her. His breath was warm, his lips – she couldn’t help but kiss him. It was like floating and sinking at the same time. She felt his free hand circle her waist, pulling her towards him.
A loud cough, nearby. They pulled apart, turned to see a fur-coated woman with a terrier on a lead glaring at them as she crossed from the elm trees to the tennis courts.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, straightening his hat and turning back to face Zelah.
‘Don’t be. I started it,’ she replied. His eyes were grey: dark, dark grey, with flecks of amber. And there was that tiny moon-shaped scar on his cheek. When he smiled the frown line between his brows smoothed away. She checked her watch. ‘But we really should be getting back. I wouldn’t want to be late clocking on. I’ll be in trouble with the boss.’
He swerved through the factory gates and into the space marked ‘Management’.
‘People will talk,’ she said, noticing the turning heads.
‘Let them.’ He turned off the ignition and began to twist the ring off his left hand. Zelah remembered what Violet had said, about him taking off his wedding band in the car. It had all been such a silly misunderstanding. She moved forward for the door catch. ‘Wait,’ he said. She turned. He held the gold ring between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. ‘Here, take it.’
‘I couldn’t.’
‘What we talked about in the car, earlier—’ He paused and cleared his throat, still holding out the ring. ‘I feel like we understand each other and don’t want you to doubt me, to doubt my – my sincerity. That’s why I want you to have this. Please.’ He placed the ring in her hand.
‘Thank you.’ The metal circle was hard and warm in her palm as he closed her fingers over it. ‘Thank you, George.’
Chapter 14
Laura
Laura heard the sound of a piano, the trilling of the keys sounded like musical laughter. She pushed open the doors to the ladies’ loos and the plinkety-plonk got louder and louder as she strode up the corridor towards the canteen. The warm-up had already started, and the canteen door was ajar. She slipped inside, standing at the back, hearing the jaunty tune, glimpsing the girls on the dais in their sparkly frocks and heels, wowing the lunchtime crowd with high kicks and twirls. Half the night shift had shown up, too, even though they weren’t due in for a good six hours, desperate to get in on the action. There’d been talk of nothing else at break times and on the bus for the last week. You’d have thought Churchill himself was coming to visit.
As she slipped her sketchbook out of her bag she noticed George Handford, almost hidden by a pillar. She saw him whisper something into Zelah Fitzlord’s ear, and saw Zelah spring back, laughing. How sweet, the pair of them – Laura hadn’t realised they were a couple. The workplace flirtation added to the party atmosphere. Dinner plates discarded, everyone milling around, feeling their best selves. Really,
who couldn’t love a show, any show: a circus, a ballet, or an ENSA party in the lunch break. Laura smiled and pulled out a well-sharpened 6B pencil.
It was a perfect opportunity for quick life drawing: a woman with her hands on her hips, head thrown back in laughter, the man leaning in towards her, hair flopping forward. Laura smelled the smoke-gravy air and felt the warmth of hundreds of bodies piled into the dining hall. As her hand and eyes worked, Laura cast her mind back to those early days at the art college, when she’d first met Harold and fallen for his talent and his self-contained wit. It had seemed like an eternity before he’d even noticed she existed. But once she’d grabbed his attention, she had to constantly nurture it, by being more fun to be with, more humorous, more talented than anyone else he could ever hope to meet. What was that French saying? Entre deux amants il y a toujours l’un qui baise et l’autre qui tend la joue – between two lovers there is always one who kisses and one who offers the cheek, or some such. She looked down at the sheet and shaded the negative space between the lovers – if that’s what they were – wondering who was the kisser and who was the offerer of the cheek in this particular romance? Harold had been the one offering the proverbial cheek, in their day. He had always been older, wealthier, wittier, more talented – she had never quite felt she deserved his attention. She looked up, but George and Zelah had disappeared, and the moment was lost.
She felt a tap on her shoulder. ‘Dame Laura.’
‘Zelah! There you are, dear. I was just looking for you.’
‘I didn’t know you were coming in.’
‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world. Never miss a show, that’s my motto!’
‘You’ll be exhausted later.’
‘Oh, I’ll have a little cat-nap and I’ll be fine, dear. What about you?’
‘I’ll probably grab a few hours this afternoon, too. I’m expected to be here, though – management like us all on board at this kind of thing.’
‘Just doing your duty, then?’
Laura looked sideways at Zelah as she nodded. ‘Nice to be able to mix work and pleasure,’ Laura said, noticing a rose tint wash over the pale skin of Zelah’s throat as she ripped off the sketch from her notebook and presented it to the girl.
‘I didn’t think anyone had seen,’ Zelah said.
‘Your secret is safe with me – if it is a secret?’
Zelah was out of her work clothes and Laura noticed the gold ring on a red ribbon at her neck. As if sensing her gaze, Zelah touched the ring before replying. ‘We haven’t made it official yet. I mean, it’s not been long, but . . .’
‘. . . but when you know, you know,’ Laura said. She couldn’t stop looking at the ring on the ribbon. Years ago, before the last war, when they’d been in Cornwall, Harold had taken to wearing a red scarf at his neck, instead of a tie or cravat, and he’d borrowed her wedding ring to thread it through to keep the ensemble in place. He was still young then – it was a gypsy fashion he’d given up when the war came. But she still remembered his long neck, the red silk scarf, the gold ring, and how he’d touched the ring with his tapered fingers sometimes, as a distraction, when he was feeling anxious about a situation. The pale skin on the throat, the red and gold, the long fingers: something so reminiscent about it.
Zelah was thanking her for the sketch, putting it inside her handbag. And Laura said, ‘Not at all, my pleasure, dear, George Handford is a very lucky man,’ but all the while she was thinking about the neck, the fingers, the red and gold.
The air was thick with smoke and applause as the dancing girls finished their turn, grinning and bowing and blowing kisses into the audience. Laura put away her sketchbook and pencil and pulled out her cigarettes, as the compere took to the microphone, thanking the Slattery Sisters and announcing a comfort break. It was easier to talk without the blaring music.
‘How old are you, if you don’t mind my asking?’ Laura said, offering a cigarette to Zelah, who smiled and took one.
‘Twenty-five. I know, a bit old for “love’s young dream”, but it feels like a second chance, for both of us.’
Laura clicked her lighter and lit their cigarettes. ‘So you were born in 1917,’ she said.
‘That’s right.’ Zelah inhaled. ‘I was born the year George joined up. It’s a bit of an age gap, I suppose, but, honestly, it doesn’t feel like it.’
‘And you’re from Devon, by the sounds of it,’ Laura said – it was so much easier to talk without that dreadful band music blaring out, or the horrible noise they had to endure on the North Shop floor during the shift.
‘I grew up in Plymouth, but I think I’m from Cornwall originally. Zelah is a little village in Cornwall, apparently.’
‘Ah, Cornwall. Beautiful, wonderful Cornwall.’ Laura inhaled deeply, savouring the warm smoke.
‘I don’t really know it. I never left Plymouth until I came here two years ago.’
‘You didn’t ever visit family in Cornwall?’
‘I don’t have family. There was only Mother. She passed away a few years ago. Nobody came to the funeral from her family, even though I put a notice in the Western Morning News.’
‘But how dreadful for you.’
‘Not really. She was well-liked, locally, so there was a good turn-out. And everyone from school came – she was a housemistress at a girls’ school. I inherited her job, after she passed.’ Zelah exhaled, and tapped ash into one of the metal ashtrays on the table beside them.
‘Still, it must have been very hard for you,’ Laura said. ‘I lost my own mother young. It felt as if I became a woman, overnight, when she passed. I had to take on all her art students.’ An image flicked through Laura’s mind of the varnished oak coffin with the brass handles, being lowered into the family grave at Nottingham General Cemetery.
She refocused her eyes on Zelah’s face. Their eyes met in understanding. A fatherless girl losing her mother, becoming the breadwinner so young. Not many people knew what that was like.
She noticed Zelah fiddling with the gold ring on the red ribbon.
So Zelah was born in Cornwall in 1917?
The long neck, the tapered fingers, the red, the gold: an abandoned wartime baby; a fatherless child born in Cornwall during the last war. No, no, no, Laura. You are being overdramatic and letting your imagination run away with you. There couldn’t possibly be any connection, could there?
In the background the conductor lifted his baton like a wand, ready to conjure up more magic. He tapped the microphone and then leant towards it: ‘Ladies and gentlemen, it is now my pleasure to introduce Elsie and Doris Waters, better known to you as Gert and Daisy!’ The piano struck up the tune of ‘Daisy, Daisy’, the crowd cheered, and Laura caught sight of two portly women in sealskin coats waddling onstage.
‘ ’Ello, ladies!’ The padded arms waved.
‘ ’Ere, Gert, is your face dirty, or is it my imagination?’
‘My face is clean enough, Daisy, but I don’t know about your imagination!’
Laughter erupted all around her, but Laura didn’t join in, couldn’t stop the gnawing feeling in her gut. She inhaled again, letting herself drift away from Zelah and towards the back wall as the act wore on: jokes about landlords and air-raid wardens and knitting in the shelter. Everyone was smiling and laughing as if today was the best day of the year so far. As if they were all just absolutely in the pink.
Laura sucked in the smoke, mind working. Gert and Daisy were at it again up on the stage, with their unending cheer.
‘What shall we sing, Gert?’
‘Let’s sing ’em a song about when the war’s over, Daisy!’
‘Come on, girls and boys,
Whoops, let’s make a noise,
Come on in and all join in the chorus . . .’
And then there was that bit in the middle with the music and dancing, and everyone linked arms and jigged about, just like they’d done in Gert and Daisy’s film, whatever it was called, and Laura took her chance to slip quietly away without Zelah or an
yone else noticing.
Because there was something on her mind, and no amount of mindless carousing could dislodge it.
Chapter 15
Zelah
‘Here’s where I married Harold!’ Laura said, as they rounded the line of cottages and followed the gravel path through the gate. Laura had brought them to Wilford Village, not far from the hostel. The shift finished early for the annual audit, and Laura had persuaded them to come with her on a sketching trip.
In front of them was a low, grey Norman church, boxy and castellated. Shards of gravestones were strewn between the daisies and long grass. They paused to take it in; it looked like it had been there forever, no-nonsense and matter-of-fact, bearing witness to thousands of ceremonies: churchings, christenings, confirmations, weddings, funerals – the endless spiritual production line of it all.
Laura was regaling them with stories as they walked up towards the entrance, something about chicken feathers in the bridal carriage and a whole five pounds to spend on a honeymoon in London. Zelah only half-listened, instead imagining herself and George, standing on the step right there, holding hands giddily beneath a shower of confetti. Laura went on ahead into the church, and Zelah waited in the entrance for Vi.
Laura was calling them: ‘Come on now, girls. Violet! Zelah!’
Something in the way the older lady called her name reminded Zelah of another lady – a moment from childhood suddenly surfacing:
‘Zelah! What a pretty name!’ The woman’s eyes are the colour of toffee and her skin like melted candle wax. Zelah looks past the older woman’s face and up at her mother, who stands just behind. Mother raises her eyebrows and nods at Zelah.
‘Thank you, Miss Orton,’ Zelah says (always say please and thank you, always acknowledge a compliment). ‘How very kind.’
‘What beautiful manners,’ the woman says, straightening up. Mother looks pleased. ‘A charming daughter you have, Mrs Fitzlord. I’m sure she’ll settle in nicely with the other girls, despite—’ She turns to face Mother and her voice lowers a tone, but Zelah can still hear. ‘We don’t tolerate any snobbery or anything of that sort at The Grange,’ she says, rubbing her palms together as if ridding them of dust.