by Clare Harvey
‘I’m afraid I’m rather busy,’ she said, gesturing at the tea things and the lemonade, feeling as if she were one of the gun barrels, white-hot, raised by chains, waiting. She saw George open his mouth to speak, and she thought not now, not here, not in front of all these people. Please. Feeling like she was the un-forged barrel, swinging on the gantry, about to plummet into oil and be engulfed by the rush of flames.
But then Violet was there, taking the ladle from her hand. ‘I can manage here,’ she said. ‘Why don’t you two go somewhere more private for your talk?’ And Zelah allowed her legs to propel her from behind the counter to where George Handford stood.
It was too awful. She couldn’t even look him in the eye. ‘Shall we?’ she said and led the way through the crowd to the front door, without even waiting for his response.
Outside, the cold air pinched her cheeks and stars blinked in the clear skies. She traced her way across to the bench, sat down and took out her cigarettes. She offered the packet to him but he shook his head and sat at the far end of the seat. She clicked her lighter and glanced across at him through the flame. She inhaled.
Here it comes, she thought. All the things he hadn’t said in the pawnbroker’s earlier. He’d talk about deceit and betrayal, and what would she say? What could she say? She couldn’t possibly defend herself, because what she’d done was indefensible.
He cleared his throat. ‘So, Miss Fitzlord, am I correct in thinking your job is to advise on welfare issues?’
‘Yes.’ She exhaled.
‘Perhaps you can advise me on a welfare issue, then?’
‘I can try.’
‘You see, the thing is, I have fallen in love with someone and she’s let me down badly, and . . .’
‘George, please—’
‘No, let me finish. If it’s your job to advise factory staff on welfare issues, then you can advise me on my welfare issue, Miss Fitzlord.’
She inhaled, holding the smoke inside and biting her lip.
‘You see, I gave this woman a love token – a gold ring – and then I discovered that she’d pawned it. She had taken my love and cashed it in. What should I do?’
It was mortifying. She deserved it. She exhaled, watching the smoke disintegrate into the blackness.
After a pause he continued. ‘What, don’t you know? Don’t you have any advice for me, Miss Welfare Supervisor? Can’t you tell me what to do for my own good?’
She tapped ash away and brought the cigarette back up to her lips. What could she say? What she’d done was wrong.
‘You see, I happen to have fallen in love with this woman. I didn’t mean to, but love came as suddenly as an explosion, ripping my world apart. But how can I risk forgiving her?’
The air between them on the bench was cold and empty. ‘Do you know why this woman pawned the ring?’ Zelah said at last.
‘I heard that she did it to lend some money to a young woman – a colleague of hers – to sort out a costly mistake.’
‘And what do you think of her now you know the reason behind her actions?’ Let’s have it. Lower that gun barrel into the oil. Wait for the inevitable surge of heat, watch the flames leap.
‘I think she could be found guilty of aiding and abetting a crime. Because it is a crime, the thing she’s lending the money for.’ There it was, the rush of fire. He blamed her. Of course he did. What right-thinking man wouldn’t?
‘But I’m not convinced she’s fully at fault, this girl – this woman – I find somehow that I cannot blame her,’ he continued. ‘She was trying to do what she always does. She was helping someone, putting their needs before her own. And that very selflessness is one of the reasons I love her.’
Zelah breathed in smoke again, not trusting herself to speak.
‘So, Miss Fitzlord, as you are the welfare supervisor here, I find myself in need of your advice. This woman did the wrong thing when she pawned the ring I’d given her, but I have come to the conclusion that she did it for the right reasons. Would you agree?’
Zelah nodded. She could feel his eyes on her, but she couldn’t bring herself to meet his gaze.
‘Was I doing the wrong thing when I broke off my engagement to this woman? Should I have given her more of a chance to explain? You’re the welfare expert. What should I do now? Miss Fitzlord?’
Zelah threw the remains of her cigarette away into the night. ‘I think, if you asked her, this woman would be truly sorry for what happened today. She has been—’ Zelah’s voice caught as she spoke, her mouth mangling the difficult words. ‘She has felt bereft since it happened and she so wishes things had been different, but she wishes that you’d known it was impossible, impossible . . .’ She broke off, unable to carry on, fighting to hold in the stupid tears.
And then he was there. A solid presence next to her. A strong arm round her shoulders. ‘And if – if I asked this woman again to marry me, what do you think her response would be?’ He smelled of whisky and pipe smoke. He felt like home.
She sniffed, wiped the wetness from her cheeks. ‘As welfare supervisor my advice is this,’ she said, managing a small smile as she continued. ‘If you were to ask this particular woman to marry you, then I suspect she would in all likelihood say yes. But whether or not you choose to take my advice is entirely up to you, Mr Handford.’
Laura
Laura sat down behind the desk. It was a relief just to be off her feet. An ache travelled all the way from her heels, up the back of her legs to the base of her spine, when she spent too long standing at the canvas these days. Still, it couldn’t be helped. She had to finish the damn thing and move on, let the girls get back to their lives. Get back to her own life, come to that. If she could. Could she?
The office vibrated with the sound of the band from the assembly hall across the way, but with the door shut all that remained was an echoing hum, like the inside of a sea shell. The air smelled of ink and paper.
Laura reached across the blotter to the telephone. For a moment she let her hand rest on the black Bakelite. These magic little contraptions, letting you break into the lives of people far away. They hadn’t been around when she was a girl. Back then they all lived as if the whole of life were contained in the streets around Forest Fields. Was it better that way, she wondered, looking round Matron’s office: filing cabinets and charts and files and notebooks angled against each other – blocks of white, beige and dun layered on grey, looking like some frightful Cubist effort by that Braque fellow. Dreadful. When would someone put a stop to all this modernist nonsense? she wondered.
Enough, Laura. You’re letting your mind wander. Remember why you’re here.
Laura picked up the receiver, put her index finger in the ‘0’ hole on the telephone and pulled the dial round to the metal stop, hearing it click-whir back into position. The disembodied voice of the operator said ‘Yes, please’ and Laura gave the area and number she wanted. With a click the operator put her through. Laura’s hand tightened on the receiver and she wished she’d lit a cigarette before starting the call. She took in a deep breath and listened to the jangle-drill sound of the phone ringing at the other end of the line.
‘Egham two-seven-eight,’ came a voice. The line crackled and hissed.
‘Ella?’
‘Yes, speaking.’
‘Ella, this is Laura, dear.’
‘Laura?’
‘Laura Knight.’
‘Oh, Laura. I say, it’s rather late. Is it urgent?’
Laura checked her watch. Was it that time already? One rather lost track.
‘It’s about Harold,’ Laura said.
‘Oh, dear God!’
‘He’s absolutely fine, don’t worry.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘What can you remember from the winter of ’16?’
‘For heaven’s sake, Laura, that’s more than twenty years ago.’
‘Twenty-seven, in point of fact, dear. We were renting next door to each other in Sennen when I had to head off t
o Witley to paint those Canadian soldiers, and I left Harold behind at the cottage. Do you remember, Ella?’
‘Not really, darling. It was such a long time ago. A lot of water has gone under the bridge since then.’
What on earth was Ella talking about? Water and bridges indeed. ‘Do you remember the girl?’
‘What girl?’
‘The girl I had in to look after Harold, after his – his illness. You found her for me, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, as a matter of fact I do remember her: curly hair and pink cheeks. Some distant relative of Cecily’s – parents died of cholera out in India, and hadn’t left enough money for her to be “finished” as I recall.’
‘What was her name?’
‘Her name?’ There was a pause then, and Laura could imagine Ella rolling her delft-blue eyes up to the ceiling, in that way she had, when she was trying to think of something. The line fizzed between them. ‘Sarah,’ she said at last. ‘It was Sarah, wasn’t it?’
‘Sarah,’ Laura repeated, taking up a pencil and writing the name down on the edge of the blotter. ‘What was her surname – can you remember?’
‘Ah, you’ve got me there. I only remember her as Sarah. Frankly, I’m amazed I remember that much. I’m not one for looking back, you know. Twenty-seven years, you say? My word. But – Laura, it is rather late. I’d love to talk but perhaps we could arrange lunch in town, next time you’re up?’
Laura could hear Ella yawning loudly over the muzzy phone line, not even bothering to try to hide it – probably exaggerating it – which would be just like Ella, making a point. ‘What a marvellous suggestion,’ Laura said. ‘Just one last thing, though. What happened to her?’
‘Who, darling?’ Ella drawled.
‘The girl – Sarah. Because when I got back from Witley, she’d gone, and you were taking care of Harold.’
‘Nothing ever happened . . .’ Ella’s voice was suddenly precise, and pitched a tone higher, her vowels breaking into a sprint. ‘With Harold. I’ve been told what you thought, and I understand why that would make things cool between us, but I can assure you, you can put your mind at rest on that score. If that’s what this call is all about.’
‘Not at all,’ Laura said. (Although it was true, she had had her suspicions about Ella, when she came back from Witley, to find things so changed. But she’d asked Mr Trevallion once, and he’d said, ‘Harold and Ella? No, my lovely. Nothing went on there. It’s not Ella you need to worry about.’) ‘I was just wondering what happened to Sarah, that’s all.’
‘She had to go, I’m afraid. She’d gone and got herself in trouble, so I sent her back to her relatives. By which time, you were almost due to return, so it hardly seemed worth engaging a replacement.’
‘Harold never said.’
‘Why would he? He’s never been one to involve himself with practicalities much, has he? I thought you said this was urgent, darling?’
‘Did I?’
‘Yes, you did. You said it was something urgent to do with Harold.’
‘Ella, I didn’t quite catch that – there seems to be something wrong with the line, dear,’ Laura said, even though she could hear her old friend, her voice clear as a bell.
‘You said this was something about H—’
But Laura had already slammed the receiver back down in its cradle. A dalliance with Ella would have been bad enough. But this was awful. And no less terrible for being precisely what she’d most feared.
Zelah
‘We can’t get married, you know,’ George said.
‘What?’ Why had he turned up at the hop, then? She didn’t understand. The moonlight caught the stone in the ring on her left hand as she shifted down a gear, bumping over the rutted track towards the clubhouse. He’d insisted on bringing her here, after what had happened at the hostel – but when she’d smelled the whisky on his breath, she’d decided to drive.
‘We can’t get married if you haven’t got a birth certificate,’ George continued. ‘You said you came here with nothing. It’s all very well telling me that you think you were born in Cornwall because of your unusual name, but I hardly think that’s going to cut it with a registrar, darling. You’ll have to apply for a copy.’
She let out a breath. ‘Of course. Of course I shall. First thing.’ She braked and they came to a halt in front of the clubhouse. ‘So this is where you escape to when you’re not holed up in your office, Mr Handford?’ She turned the key in the ignition and the engine stilled.
‘Sometimes.’ He looked out through the windscreen to where water stretched silver-blue towards charcoal fields. ‘In the summer, mostly.’
‘And did you come here with—’
‘Lexi? No, wasn’t her thing. Tennis – we used to play mixed doubles together, before . . .’ He drew breath and turned to look at Zelah. ‘It was a long time ago. Shall we?’ She nodded and they both got out of the car.
The wooden twin-gabled clubhouse was up on stilts, with dinghy hulls stashed underneath. More boats were hauled up on the stretch of grass beside the clubhouse. A Union Jack flapped lazily against the star-speckled sky. Zelah closed the car door.
‘I used to sail a lot, as a boy – Father taught me,’ George said, coming round to the front of the car to meet her. ‘I stopped when I joined up. Then there was Lexi. But afterwards – afterwards it was something of a comfort, I found.’
‘It stills the mind, doesn’t it?’ Zelah said, moving in towards him. His coat was unbuttoned. She slipped an arm round his waist. They began to walk towards the pontoon. ‘We took the girls sometimes, at weekends. There would always be one or two who couldn’t go home for an exeat weekend, for some reason or other – you know, a case of measles in the house, or a newborn sibling – and so we’d take them off sailing or hiking, so they didn’t feel they’d missed out too much when the rest of the dorm came back on Sunday evening with full tuck boxes and tales of days out at the seaside.’
‘I didn’t know you sailed. What else don’t I know about you?’
‘I’m not sure – plenty of time to find out, though.’
‘The rest of our lives.’
They walked across the damp grass. The moon hung large and bright in the sky: a bombers’ moon, shedding a strip of tinselled light on the water. ‘I’ve been here once before, actually,’ she said. ‘It wasn’t long after I arrived in Nottingham. I borrowed a bike and cycled all the way along the Beeston Cut until I got here. I had a cup of tea in the tea garden at the Lock tea rooms, and looked across at the dinghies on the water. It reminded me too much of Plymouth, though: the sun and the wind and the coloured sails. So I never came again, couldn’t face it.’
‘But you’re here now.’
‘With you. It’s different, with you.’ Zelah leant her head on George’s shoulder and they looked out over the water together.
There was a beat, then, and she knew that they’d both turn and their lips would meet. But in that moment there began a tiny sound, distant and insistent, like a drill, boring a hole through the edge of the sky. She stiffened. ‘Do you hear that?’
‘Don’t worry, darling, they’re not headed this way. They never do. There’s not been a night raid here for years. We’re just not a target. Trust me, I’m a fire watcher.’ He turned and pulled her closer to him, and she let herself fall into his embrace. Her lips met his and there was the whisky-smoke-warm taste of him and the feel of his hands stroking the curve of her back. The buzz of the planes passing overhead was nothing more than a swarm of distracted wasps. Then the air was still once more, with just the waves lapping the pontoon, and the gentle chink of halyards, and the sound of her own heartbeat.
And she knew she was the luckiest woman alive.
Chapter 19
Violet
‘It’s beautiful, Zelah,’ Vi said, looking down at where the fire opal in her engagement ring gleamed with trapped rainbow colours as it caught the light. George Handford had gone back for the ring with the money Vi had shoved through his lette
rbox. And Vi had apologised to them both, said she’d decided to go through with the pregnancy, have the baby adopted, just as Doctor Gibbs suggested.
Sometimes you had to tell people what they wanted to hear, Vi thought. Even if it wasn’t exactly the truth. She still wanted rid of the thing that was growing in her belly, wanted it gone before she began to think of it as a baby. Because as soon as she thought of it as a real child, as her child, she’d never be able to let go, she knew. But she couldn’t say that to Zelah, not after all that had happened. No, she was on her own with this problem now.
‘Thank you,’ Zelah said, taking another drag of the cigarette and passing it back to her room-mate.
‘When is the wedding?’ Vi asked through an inhalation.
‘As soon as my copy birth certificate comes through then we can apply for a licence. It could be any day!’ The fields were pale lime with new growth. Yellow dandelions spotted the grass by the fire escape. In the distance she could see the green bus caterpillaring through the country roads towards the hostel. Vi passed the cigarette back and Zelah took a thoughtful drag. ‘When it comes, would you be my maid of honour? It’ll only be in Nottingham Registry Office, not a big “do” or anything, but—’
‘I’d love to,’ Vi said, and meant it. She felt Zelah’s arms encircle her. She smelled of smoke and talcum powder, and for a moment it was just like sharing a hug with her big sister Bea. Vi sighed and chucked the cigarette out of the window. Just then a voice started to sing, loudly but a little flat, from the open window of the room next door. ‘ “There’ll be blue birds over, the white cliffs of Dover . . .” ’ Vi rolled her eyes and took out the paper packet from her overall pocket.
‘Would Vera Lynn like a humbug?’ she yelled, thrusting the bag of sweets outside. The singing stopped.
‘Don’t mind if I do. Ta, ducks.’ A hand reached round from the open window, rustled in Vi’s outstretched sweetie bag and disappeared.
‘Never mind my sweet ration, at least that’s shut her up for a bit,’ Vi said under her breath, and mimed operatic hand movements and dramatic expressions in mimicry. Zelah put a hand to her mouth to stifle her laughter. ‘You want one?’ Vi said, and Zelah said ‘Thanks’, popping a striped peppermint into her mouth.