‘Not likely. You know I can’t ask Grandfather for anything.’
He shrugs, won’t meet my eye.
‘I called in at the Labour Exchange first thing this morning. They said they didn’t have anything suitable. Then I went round to your office to look for you, to tell you why I’d had to come back. That’s when I saw the card in your window. Assistant wanted.’
‘You want me to give you a job?’ He sounds incredulous, looks as if he wishes he hadn’t already finished his drink.
‘Why not?’
‘You don’t think it might be awkward, working together?’
‘Of course I think it’ll be bloody awkward, but I don’t seem to have any choice.’
‘I see,’ he says again. But the thick glasses hide his expression, and I can’t tell what he’s thinking.
‘It says, Confidential work, must be able to type. I can do that. I was a doctor’s secretary before.’ I pause, wondering how to put it. ‘I know how to keep secrets.’
He makes a movement of his head, like someone shaking off a fly.
‘It’s not only that. It’s not a secretary I need, there are girls in the office who can do all that. I’m looking for an assistant for my work as coroner.’
‘So what would I need to do?’
‘It’s not just sitting in an office, typing. The work can be . . . distressing.’
‘You mean I’d have to see dead bodies? You can’t think that would worry me after London. You saw what it’s like. After a raid, the ARP have to go round picking up the bits in baskets.’
‘It’s always been a man who’s done the work.’
‘There’s a war on, you know.’
‘So they tell me.’ His tone is dry. But he hasn’t said no yet.
‘That card in your window looked pretty old. Have you had many applicants?’
‘Not even one.’
‘And you must be busy now, because of the Cricketers’ Arms.’
He’s fierce, suddenly. ‘What do you know about that?’
I’m taken aback, try not to show it.
‘Only what Bunny Burnage told me when I got here. He said there’d been a raid, a lot of deaths.’
‘Nothing else?’
‘There were people talking about it in the street, but I didn’t get close enough to hear what they were saying. You know what it’s like when you don’t belong.’
‘Yes.’ That seems to have struck a chord. ‘It’s not easy, Jo. I don’t know what to say.’
‘How about, I’ll give you a trial, Mrs Lester?’
I can see him calculating it. Risk against benefit. I feel as if I should cross my fingers, hold my breath. But at last he looks at me straight.
‘All right. A month’s trial, then. But I’m not promising anything.’
‘When do you want me to start?’
‘How about tomorrow, eight thirty? There’s a post mortem, one of the dead from the pub. We haven’t identified her yet. Meet me at the hospital and we’ll see how you get on.’
‘OK.’
He gets up to go. ‘The hospital isn’t on Greatbridge Road any more. They built us a new one, up on Mile Hill. You can’t miss it.’
Mile Hill. The cottage where I was brought up, that went with Grandfather’s job as a farm labourer, is on Mile Hill. I don’t know whether he still lives there, but I’d rather not find out. Nash would probably know, but I’m not going to ask him. I’m not going to fail at the first test he sets me.
‘I’ll be there.’
4
The same day, late afternoon and evening
I CHECK THE SCRAP OF PAPER I’ve been given. Closeacre, Tadburn Road. May have room to rent. I remember all this as open farmland, but now there’s a road with a neat row of semi-detached houses on one side. On the other, there’s a fenced-in site that seems almost industrial with its rows of huge glasshouses. A couple of girls in Land Army uniforms are working on the far side of the site under a sign that reads WILLS’ NURSERIES. ESTABLISHED 1926. FINEST TOMATOES IN THE SOUTH.
I find Closeacre at the top of the road. It’s meticulously kept, painfully neat: the gravel path is raked and weedless, the net curtains starchy white. It doesn’t look promising as a prospective lodging house, but it’s not as if I have any choice. I’ll have to give it a try. I’m reaching to open the gate when a voice from behind makes me jump.
‘What’s up, Doc?’
Turning, I see a skinny young man in dusty overalls and a cloth cap.
‘You startled me.’
‘Sign of a guilty conscience, Dot says.’
His teasing takes me back, familiar as Billy or Jem.
‘Cheeky devil.’
‘’S right.’ He eyes me up and down. ‘Have you come about working at the nursery?’
‘No.’ I’m puzzled. Is this another job I might have been able to try for? ‘I’ve been told I might find lodgings at this address.’
He laughs. ‘Someone’s been pulling your leg. Miss Bailey that lives here does the hiring for the nursery. That’s why I thought you might be looking for her. But her old mum, she’s a proper tartar. Can’t see her taking in lodgers. From what I hear, she don’t so much as let fresh air indoors in case it disturbs the cushions.’
‘Damn.’
Seems like someone’s got their wires crossed, and I don’t think it’s me. First the Labour Exchange, now the Billeting Office. Anyone would think they wanted to get rid of me. Stranger? Heave half a brick at ’im has always been the town’s attitude.
‘Have you got somewhere else to try?’
‘Not at the moment.’
‘No promises, mind, but Dot might be able to help.’
‘Who’s Dot?’
‘Sort of auntie. I’m staying with her while I’m working at the nursery.’
‘That’s a bit different from taking in a stranger.’
‘Oh, Dot’s all right. Take in the world, she would. And she’s got a spare room since Rosie went home.’
‘Would she mind me asking?’
‘Give me a minute an’ I’ll pop over and see.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Course. Who shall I say?’
‘My name’s Lester, but . . . Has your aunt lived in Romsey long?’
‘Born and bred.’
‘You’d better tell her, then. I used to be Josephine Fox.’
‘Famous, eh?’
I shrug. ‘More like notorious. Wouldn’t want to upset her.’
He wipes his hand on his overalls, holds it out.
‘Shake, missus. Alf Smith. Pretty well known about the place myself.’
‘Good to meet you, Alf.’ He shakes my hand so hard all the muscles in my arm protest. ‘What ever do you do over there? Lift weights?’
‘Stoking in the boiler house. Got a duff foot, they won’t let me join up.’ He flexes his biceps at me. ‘Arms are OK though.’
‘I’m impressed.’
‘Get on.’ But he seems pleased. ‘We’re down the end, the one with red tiles. Nothing fancy, but plenty of grub. Look as if you could do with it.’
‘You’re a fine one to talk.’
‘Burn it up,’ he says. ‘What about you?’
‘Something like that.’
*
Alf’s ‘sort of auntie’ is a soft-featured woman in her sixties who takes me in without a murmur. We settle on terms, and if she recognises me, she doesn’t say. Nor does she ask for references once I tell her I’ll be working for Nash. Good scents of cooking are coming from the kitchen, and I’m grateful for her easy acceptance. Alf’s crack about food has reminded me how long it is since I last ate.
At supper, we sit six to the table. Alf, who’s fetched my suitcase from the station in a wheelbarrow; Dot, watchful at the head. The two Land Girls I saw earlier are introduced as Joan and Betty, inseparable as Laurel and Hardy. They sleep in a dormitory over at the nursery, Alf says, get their evening meal at Dot’s by arrangement. Last is Pa Gray, Dot’s ancient father, with
the hair and beard of an Old Testament prophet, and so deaf that Dot has to communicate with him by chalking messages on a slate.
They put a chair next to Alf for me, and Dot brings in three big bowls: rabbit stew, cabbage, and potatoes boiled in their skins. Pa doesn’t need any prompting to bend his head and rattle through a grace.
‘For this good grub we thank thee, Lord.’
‘Amen.’
As desperate as if they’ve been starving through an hour-long sermon, the Land Girls and Alf grab for the dishes, begin heaping food onto their plates. Joan, the thin one, giggles, casts a sly look my way.
‘Not so much the Lord be thankit,’ she says. ‘Our Alfie with his snares.’
Dot gives the Land Girl a cold look. ‘Careless talk, Joan. Eat up and shut up. Mrs Lester?’ She passes the bowl of potatoes across. ‘Help yourself. There’s plenty.’
After that, no one says much until the rabbit is replaced by stewed rhubarb and evaporated milk, and a great brown teapot is put on the table to brew.
‘You’ll have to make do with the evap for your tea, Mrs Lester, till I can register your ration book.’
‘I drink tea black, thanks. Won’t you call me Jo?’
‘I’ll call you a little miracle if I can have your milk for cooking.’
‘Of course.’
‘Your teeth’ll drop out,’ Betty says. It’s the first time she’s spoken, a surprising mousy whisper coming from her heavy frame. ‘Still, prob’ly don’t need to worry when you’re old.’
I try not to laugh. I don’t feel as old as all that.
‘Probably not.’
‘You haven’t been called up, like?’
‘She’s Missus, stupid,’ Joan says. ‘They don’t call up married women.’
‘Yet,’ says Betty. ‘Anyway, if she’s married, where’s—?’
‘Had a bit of an odd do this morning,’ Alf breaks in. He’s been quiet till now, and I bless him for drawing the girls’ attention away from me.
‘How’s that, then, Alf?’ Dot asks.
He pushes his pudding dish away, settles his elbows on the table.
‘I went up to the Cricketers’ with the ARP to help with the digging. There was a lot of rubble and stuff, a great pile all anyhow, you’d hardly credit there’d ever been a building there. We didn’t think there was a hope, you know, of getting anyone out alive, but we had to give it a try. There was this hole went right down into the cellar. We couldn’t hear anything, but I said I’d go in on a rope and have a look.’
Joan shivers. ‘Ooohh, Alfie.’
‘They was all dead, I heard,’ the mouse whispers.
‘’S right. Eight of them in the end. They never stood a chance. There was all the regulars, Ma Bryall and the old boys, poor little May. Funny thing was—’
‘Funny?’ Dot says.
‘Strange, then. You know what I mean. There was this one girl, looked like she was asleep. Hardly a mark on her. But the others—’ He breaks off, swallowing hard. ‘Better not say any more about that.’
Dot puts a heaping teaspoon of sugar in his cup, pushes it across.
‘Never mind, boy. You did what you could.’
‘Yep.’ His hands are shaking as he lifts the cup, slurps a mouthful of tea. ‘Sorry. Just sort of hit me.’
‘Off you go, girls,’ Dot tells them. ‘You’ve had all you’re going to get.’
I take the prompt too, stand up.
‘You needn’t go, Mrs Lester. But the girls have got an early start, and we don’t want them having nightmares.’ She puts her hand on Alf’s. ‘We’ve been lucky, had a quiet war till now.’
‘I will go out for a few minutes, if you don’t mind.’
‘Come and go as you like, so long as you’re careful with the blackout. I lock up at ten, but there’s a key on a hook in the scullery. Under the old tin bath.’
My watch says half past eight, but I’m dog-tired.
‘I won’t be that long.’
Outside, it’s glimmering dark. Ahead, the drift of the girls’ voices moves away from me, a shrill chatter of sound that breaks the silence, grows fainter as Betty and Joan return to their billet. I follow as far as the field gate, light a cigarette, careful not to let the match flare. I need a smoke. I hadn’t reckoned how hard the day would be, once the memories started to come creeping back.
*
‘Hurry up, Josy,’ Jem says.
‘Gi’ us a go.’ That’s Bert.
We’re squatting under the hedge, waiting for Abe to turn up. I’m concentrating on the makings of a cigarette: Rizla paper, a few precious shreds of tobacco. Jem’s a whiner who’ll take one drag and choke and Bert’s a hardened smoker at ten, too mean to share the fags he pinches from his brothers.
‘’S not for you. I got the baccy, didn’t I?’
One of my jobs is making Grandfather’s roll-ups, better not come out less than twenty-five to the ounce and a clip round the ear if they aren’t filled tight.
‘Dad’ll skin you if he finds out,’ Mike says.
‘Don’t care. And don’t you butt in if he does, neither. It’s nothing to do with you.’
I eke out the tobacco into a thin roll. It’s taken me a week to save enough for this one cigarette. I’m not going to share it. I lick the edge of the paper carefully, roll the fag paper tight. It’s hardly thicker than a match, but it’s real fresh tobacco, not dog-ends rerolled. I’m admiring it when Bert leans over and snatches it out of my fingers.
‘Hey, that’s mine.’
‘Finders keepers.’ He holds it out of my reach, grinning. A hefty big lad despite the smoking. ‘Li’l girls shouldn’ smoke.’
‘Pig.’
I pull at his arm, trying to make him give it back, but he holds me off easily. Somehow, my nails catch his skin and a bloody scratch appears on his wrist.
‘Cat.’ He crushes the cigarette in his fingers, a pathetic scrap of paper and tobacco. ‘Smoke thatten, then.’
I reach to scrabble the pieces together and try again but he stands up, scrapes his boot over the remains so nothing is left but a muddy smear. I get up, hit out at him, ignoring Mike’s efforts to come between us.
‘You bloody pig.’
‘Fight, fight!’ Billy and Jem urge.
‘Shoulda shared.’ Bert gives me a push that sends me reeling into the brambles. ‘Rules of the gang.’
I try not to cry as Mike hauls me out of the thorns, thinking that even if Grandfather doesn’t notice I’ve cheated his fags, he can’t miss the tear in my skirt.
‘Rules of the gang?’ It’s Abe. None of us saw him arrive. ‘What’s going on?’
Bert and I clam up, because telling tales is against the rules too, but Jem can’t leave it alone.
‘She wouldn’t share her ciggy so Bert pinched it.’ Jem glances at Bert’s face and then at mine, decides in a second whose side he’d rather be on. ‘Just a joke, like, but she went loony, boss.’
Abe looks at us too. Bert’s smug, sure boys will stick together. Despite myself, snot and tears are running down my face and I have to wipe them off with the back of my hand.
‘If it was a joke, you won’t mind giving it back,’ Abe says, easy.
But Bert can’t, because he’s squashed it in the dirt. He makes a face, takes one of his own out of his pocket and hands it over. Abe smacks him on the shoulder like grown men do, mates against the world.
And now I’m really going to cry. I run away, cigarette in hand. It’d choke me to smoke it, even if I had a match. Bert’s mean, and Jem’s a sneak, and whatever I said to Mike, I am scared to go home.
*
‘Heya, Doc.’
I don’t need to look round. ‘Hello, Alf.’
‘Spare me a drag, Mrs Lester?’
‘Have one.’ I offer him the packet.
‘Ta.’
‘Light?’
He leans towards me, touching the unlit end of his cigarette to mine.
‘Thanks.’ He takes a deep lungful of smoke. ‘Pfff
h. Tipped. Girls’ stuff.’
‘Beggars can’t be choosers.’
‘True.’
I catch the gleam of teeth as he grins at me.
‘You OK with Dot?’
‘I’m grateful, Alf.’ Yawning, I stub the cigarette out on the gatepost. ‘Didn’t want to spend the night in the park.’
‘I heard you tell Auntie you’re gonna be working for Mr Nash.’
‘That’s right.’
‘You won’t say anything to him about tonight? That I got shaky, like.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’
‘I was all right when we were at the pub. They said not to go down, but I knew I could. And she might have been alive. Someone might’ve.’
‘It was a brave thing you did, Alf. Dangerous.’
‘Only he was there, see. Watching. ’Cos of being the coroner. He said my evidence would be invaluable.’ He stumbles over the last word.
‘I’m sure.’
‘I wouldn’t want him to think I’m a coward.’
‘Far from it.’
‘Bloke like that, you know. Stuff he’s been through. Some of the blokes call him Tin Chops, say if he took the mask off you could see his brain. D’you think that it’s true?’
I know what lies under the mask. The hollowed-out spaces and the scars. I made him show me that night, though he hadn’t wanted to. It had seemed important at the time, but I can’t forget it.
‘Mrs Lester? You all right?’
‘What? Oh, yes, just tired, Alf. I ought to get to bed.’
‘Sorry if I upset you.’
‘Not to worry. Are you coming in?’
‘Nah. Gotta see a man about a dog.’
‘Tomorrow’s supper?’
‘Bit of foraging. See what I can see. Pigeon pie, if you’re lucky.’
5
16th April
I SLEEP, DREAMLESS, FOR MOST OF the night. But towards morning, the images begin.
The shelter’s taken a direct hit. The stench is terrible, a raw mixture of dust and the butcher’s shop. There’s something sticky, dark as treacle, sliding down the wall. A child’s foot, still in its shoe, gleams bone-white in the doorway.
The Unexpected Return of Josephine Fox Page 3