by Clare Harvey
‘You’d think they didn’t want the business.’ George tapped his fingers on the counter top.
‘Maybe we should go. Come back later.’ Her voice sounded strange, wavering and worn out.
‘Anyone would think you’re stalling, having second thoughts, Miss Fitzlord.’ George stilled his drumming fingers and took off his trilby. ‘You’re not, are you, darling?’ He turned and looked directly at her, then: those grey eyes under their thick brows.
‘Of course not. I love you.’ Her first confession of love came out in a desperate rush. She realised, then, that what she’d felt for that poor naval officer had been nothing more than an unfulfilled dream. But this was real. It was now and it was real.
‘I love you too, Zelah.’
They looked into each other’s eyes and everything else fell away.
There was the sound of someone coughing. Zelah blinked, turned. The woman with the rotten tooth had appeared behind the counter, carrying a chipped cream mug. Tan-coloured tea sloshed over the side as she put it down by the till. She put her hands on her hips. ‘Buying or hocking?’ she said, and as she said it she looked quizzically at Zelah.
‘We’d like to take a look at the fire opal ring in the window,’ George said. The woman nodded and pulled a bunch of keys from the pocket of her pinny.
‘It’s a nice piece,’ she said, manoeuvring out from behind the counter and over to the front of the shop. ‘Some say opals are bad luck, but I reckon that’s just an old wives’ tale.’
It will be fine, Zelah thought. After all, discretion should be part of her business. She’ll stay quiet about my coming in with Violet, and George won’t notice that I’m not wearing his wedding band because I’ll keep my coat buttoned up. And soon – for God’s sake, soon, surely? – Dame Laura will finish the painting and pay the sitter’s fee and George need never know.
Zelah watched the woman unlock the back of the window display and grapple inside, heard George say, ‘Yes, that’s the one.’ The woman was talking about how you had to be careful with opals: ‘My old mum had an opal ring – not a fire opal, mind, just a regular one – and she wore it out to Evensong one winter’s night – she was very religious, my mum, liked to go to church twice of a Sunday . . .’
As the woman fiddled with the ring and the keys and chattered away, Zelah peeled the glove from her left hand, wishing distractedly that she’d given her nails a better scrub after the shift. She hadn’t cleaned the machine grease out from her nail beds properly: they were grime-etched, like one of Dame Laura’s charcoal sketches. She stretched out her fingers. They felt cold and naked.
‘. . . and when she put her hands in front of the fire, the opal crumbled, just like that, nothing left but dust. Of course Dad was livid. It was the only time I ever saw him raise a hand to her . . .’ The woman gave the velvet box to George and he walked the three paces across the dusty lino towards Zelah. She watched as, for the second time that morning, he got down on one knee and asked her to marry him. She said yes, he slipped the ring onto her finger and it fitted – it fitted perfectly.
And Zelah let out a breath and smiled, because she’d got through it, and it was all going to be all right, wasn’t it?
George got up off his knees and embraced her and she let herself sink into him, feeling safe. Then he pulled away and began to talk to the woman about payment because the woman had gone back behind the counter and was standing pointedly at the till. Zelah looked down at the beautiful, perfect engagement ring that she would wear forever. She heard George asking the woman if a cheque would be all right.
And the woman said: ‘What, you not using the cash from hocking that other ring, then, duck?’ Zelah looked up. The woman had turned, hands on hips, looking directly at Zelah, as if what she’d just said made perfect sense. As if it didn’t signify the end of everything.
Zelah looked from the woman to the engagement ring, to George. ‘I beg your pardon?’ George said.
With horrifying slowness, the woman pulled a red ribbon from the till, let the gold band fall so it swung slow circles in the stale shop air. ‘I just assumed. But no matter, don’t mind me. A cheque will do fine.’
Zelah watched George’s head turn towards her, saw the appalled look in his kind eyes. ‘Zelah?’
She opened her mouth to reply, but no words came.
‘Zelah!’
‘Zelah!’ The feel of Mother’s sweaty hand tugging at hers as they run though the lychgate. There is the sound of the organ from inside the church: ‘Praise, my soul, the King of Heaven’, as they slip in through the heavy door. Heads turn, eyebrows rise, brows furrow. The suffocating sadness and the wooden box at the front and mother’s face all small and tight, and kneeling down to pray – the hard stone floor hurts her wounded knee where she fell as they raced from the bus stop. Then men carry the wooden box out through the door and everyone looks, turning their heads, and follows on outside where the men put it down in a hole in the ground, like a chest of buried treasure, Zelah thinks (there is a book of pirate stories beside the bed at home). Everyone is stern-faced and there are lace-edged handkerchiefs, and the smell of mothballs. She and Mother stand at the back: a forest of legs, hundreds of black tree trunks. Nobody looks at them, except one little boy, and when his mummy sees him staring, she grabs him, hisses something in his ear, makes him turn away. Everyone sniffs, clearing throats, as if they all have colds. The vicar’s voice sounds like the sea.
Afterwards Mother touches the sleeve of a short woman with white hair and a black straw bonnet, who is walking off down the path. The woman goes red in the face, turns, wrenches her sleeve free. ‘It’s not the girl’s fault – she’s done nothing wrong!’ Mother calls out, but the woman goes off without answering. Zelah sees people whisper to each other, glance in their direction and then look away.
It is as if they are stranded on a desert island, Zelah thinks, like the one in the pirate book, and the people are the ships that sail past without seeing the smoke from the bonfire, or picking up the messages floating in bottles.
Everyone leaves the churchyard except Zelah and her mother. Mother stares at the mound of earth where the chest is buried for a very long time. The sky turns from primrose to ash at a stroke, and Mother says they should get going. On the walk back to the bus stop the village green is empty. The children are inside because it is dinner time already, and the sky is purple-black over the moors. Fat drops start to fall and they wait at the bus stop in the rain.
Zelah watches the raindrops coursing down her mother’s cheeks and how she doesn’t even bother wiping them away.
And they carry on dribbling down her face all the way back to Plymouth, even though it isn’t raining inside the bus.
The corridor was a spinning drill bit as Zelah bore down to room 179, at the far end. The door was unlocked, she noticed, as if Vi didn’t care who barged in on her. Zelah pushed it open, went inside, slammed it shut behind her. The blackout blinds were drawn but she ripped them open, letting in the dirty daylight.
‘Zelah? Is that you?’
‘Who else did you think it was? Another one of your men?’ Anger bitter as over-brewed coffee in her mouth. Violet’s painted toenails hanging down from the top bunk and her sleepy drawl: ‘Don’t be like that, Zelah. What is it? What happened with George?’
‘What happened?’ A mirthless laugh escaped her lips. ‘He asked me to marry him and I said yes.’ Violet slid off the bunk and stood facing Zelah. Her hair was twisted into curling rags, but they’d begun to unravel. She looked like a slovenly Medusa. ‘He took me back to the same shop to pick out the engagement ring,’ Zelah said, and watched as Violet’s sleep-heavy eyelids sprung suddenly wide.
‘And the woman?’ Vi said. ‘Did she let on?’
‘What do you think, Violet? What the hell do you think? Would I be here if the woman kept quiet?’
‘Oh, God, Zelah. I’m so sorry.’
‘Thank you, Violet. That makes all the difference. Because you being sorry is just going
to send George running back to me and make him trust me again.’ She couldn’t stop the spewing words. ‘Your being sorry is going to magically cancel out my betrayal of his love and trust. I’m sure he won’t mind that I sold his wedding ring, now you’ve said sorry, Violet Smith.’
‘Oh, Zelah—’ Vi reached out but Zelah shoved her hand away, noticing how her own arm was quivering with anger. It was all she could do not to slap the girl, launch herself at her, scratching and punching.
‘Tell me where he is, now. Let me go and explain to him.’
‘You think I didn’t try? You think I didn’t try to tell him that I only pawned his ring to pay for your sodding abortion?’
‘Keep your voice down, Zelah.’
‘Or what, Violet?’
‘D’you want someone to hear, get us all in the muck?’
‘There is no “us”, Violet. There never was. You’ve ruined everything by dragging me down into your sorry mess of a life and I’ve had enough of it. You’re on your own. Now go away and leave me alone.’
She pushed past Violet and threw herself down onto the bottom bunk, buried her face in the pillow and screamed. Not caring. Not caring about Violet or her baby or what Matron thought or who heard. Not caring about any of it. Because nothing mattered, now.
Chapter 18
Violet
‘Just go away,’ he said, slouched against the door jamb, not even looking at her. ‘Go away, Miss Smith,’ he repeated. She could smell whisky-smoke breath, see the five o’clock shadow on his unshaven cheeks as light spilled out onto the pavement. He must have been playing a record on a gramophone. From inside came the faint scratch and click of the needle, again and again, like an itch.
‘It wasn’t her fault. She did it for me because I needed the money. But I never meant for this to happen.’ Vi held out the envelope. ‘It’s all there, and the slip, too. Count it, if you want. You can get the ring back first thing.’
‘It’s not about the money.’ He waved the envelope away. ‘It’s about the principle.’
‘But she was only trying to help me.’
‘She went behind my back. She betrayed my trust. She—’
‘But she only did it for my sake!’
Why wouldn’t he take back the money? Why wouldn’t he listen?
‘Didn’t she explain? It was a loan, that’s all.’
‘I would have lent her money if she’d asked. It’s the deceit, don’t you see?’
‘But I needed money quickly for my – for my mistake.’
‘Oh, that,’ he said, running a hand over his face, then making eye contact at last.
‘Yes, that,’ Vi said. ‘How would it look if it came out that a boss was lending out money for that? Zelah was protecting you.’ She held his gaze. ‘She was trying to help me and protect you, and between us both we’ve made her the most miserable woman this side of the Siegfried Line. Take the ruddy money, Mr Handford. I don’t want it now I know what it’s done to you two.’
He didn’t answer her immediately, just kept looking at her, standing in the doorway with the proud-slump of a half-drunk man. For a moment she was reminded of Frank Timpson, at the edge of the alleyway, that time. She shivered. There were footsteps on the pavement behind her.
‘Put that light out!’ A man’s voice in the darkness behind her.
‘Why?’
‘You know fine well why, Mr Handford. Hitler’ll be over here.’ The voice and footsteps got closer.
‘No, he won’t.’ Mr Handford sounded bored. ‘You know as well as I do, Mr Packer, that we haven’t had a raid here for two years and nor are we likely to. Nottingham is not a strategic target for the Nazis. And even if it were, I hardly think the chink of light from my front door is likely to send the bombers swooping down.’
Violet turned and saw a bandy-legged man in an ARP warden helmet behind her on the street. ‘You put that light out, or I’ll put it out for you, Mister! And I won’t have my missus coming over and doing your whatnots for you, neither.’
Mr Handford sighed. ‘All right, Mr Packer. My visitor was just leaving anyway, weren’t you, Miss Smith?’
The ARP warden harrumphed, but continued on his way. ‘I’ll be back later to check, you mark my words!’
Violet heard the footsteps stomp away. She looked back at Mr Handford. She saw him run his left hand through his hair, then shove it off his forehead, and she noticed the glint of a ring on his finger.
He saw her looking. ‘I’ve paid back the pawnbroker’s and got my ring, Miss Smith,’ he said. ‘You can treat what’s in that envelope as an advance against your wages. Now, please, will you go away and leave me in peace?’
And before she had a chance to reply, the door slammed in her face. She hesitated, still holding the envelope, looking at the shut door. It was very quiet, just the far-distant tramp of the warden’s boots on the pavement up the street. With her free hand, Vi clenched and unclenched her fist. Then she leant forwards and pushed the fat package through the brass letterbox. She had to shove, hard, to get it right inside. She thought of how she used to dose the little ones with their cod liver oil once a week, pushing the spoon in through those pursed lips. She heard the envelope fall onto the doormat, and turned to go.
Zelah
She would just carry on, she supposed. Zelah gave the ersatz lemonade a stir with the metal ladle. It made a dull thunk sound against the edge of the bucket. Because when things go wrong, that’s what you do, just move on. After Plymouth she’d had to start again, and perhaps that was the answer now. She could approach the Board and ask for a transfer. There was a shell-filling factory being built out near Ruddington, although it was supposed to be all hush-hush. Maybe they’d need a welfare supervisor. As soon as Dame Laura had finished this portrait she should ask, move on. George Handford would never have to see her again.
The lobby was all but empty. A spot prize waltz was underway in the assembly hall, and the prize was a pair of nylons, a Cuban cigar and two grapefruits. No wonder they were all packed in there. Even Matron had allowed herself to be steered through the double doors and onto the dance floor by an over-gallant Mr Tonks. There was just one airman and a girl in a yellow dress, passion-clamped by the fire doors. If Matron were here she would probably have marched over and wrenched them apart, spitting out words like ‘decorum’, ‘modesty’ and ‘diseases’. But Matron was behind the double doors, trotting a sweaty one-two-three in Harry Tonks’s embrace, so Zelah ignored the kissing couple. There was precious little fun to be had. Why shouldn’t they grab at love whilst they still had the opportunity?
They might not get another bite at the cherry.
Zelah continued to stir, working in the final remains of citric acid and saccharine powder into the cloudy liquid. She swallowed, her throat dry and a tightness in her jaw, thinking of all of them waltzing away in there, twirling in the darkness, hoping the spot would fall and pin their twisting bodies like a plane in a searchlight beam. If things had been different, would she have been on the dance floor with George Handford now? Zelah wondered. Would she have been laughing and showing off her engagement ring to the girls? She’d never danced with George, she realised. She was never likely to either. Not now. Not after what had happened today.
Out of the corner of her eye she saw the front door open, felt the swift draught of cold outside seep in. And she thought for a moment it might be George, because he was supposed to be at the hop tonight. But of course it wasn’t him. It was just Vi coming back from dropping her deposit off with Mrs Kirk. She walked over to the stairs, sat down on the third step and took out her cigarettes. As Zelah watched, she found she held no animosity towards her colleague for what had happened, but neither did she want to speak to her. There was just this overwhelming numbness. Violet caught her eye as she put the match to her cigarette. Zelah looked away, across towards the hall doors, where the band music had just stopped and there was the sound of a muffled cheer. Some lucky couple had just won.
She heard a vehicle dr
awing up outside, and thought it must be more airmen arriving – the men might finally outnumber the women, at this rate. The couple by the fire exit were still kissing like there was no tomorrow, and maybe there wouldn’t be, for him, at least, Zelah thought sadly, wondering how many more Mary McLaughlins and Violet Smiths there were throughout the country. All those couples kissing like there was no tomorrow, all those unbidden lives forged in the passion-panic of it all. Accidents of war. Civilian casualties. Collateral damage.
The murky lemonade was like breath on a cold day. She put down the ladle and began to re-arrange the tumblers. The urn was steaming at the far end of the counter, and Matron had left her plenty of change in the tin. She heard the applause from the hall and smoothed her hands down her skirt. The rush was about to begin. They’d be thirsty. She reached again for the ladle.
There was a blast of cold air as the front door banged open again, but at the same time a wave of warm air from the dance floor washed into the lobby as couples spilled in through the double doors. Zelah heard the surge of voices, watched the bodies like fairground dodgems, bouncing and laughing. She saw a puce-faced Mr Tonks peck Matron, who put a nervous hand up to a pallid cheek, as if to rub away the evidence of his kiss. Then, ‘Where’s the ruddy welfare supervisor?’ A man’s voice, louder than the others. The throng of bodies pulled apart to let him through.
It was George.
Her guts twisted like the rifling lathe, spinning hard concentric circles, boring deep inside.
‘Over here.’ Everyone looked and it was suddenly quiet. He was hatless, his coat buttons undone and he had no tie on. He strode over to the counter. ‘How can I help you?’ She struggled to make her voice rise above a whisper.
‘I have an urgent welfare issue I need to discuss with you, Miss Fitzlord,’ he said, his words oddly drawn out. Was that alcohol she could smell on his breath?