The Undertow

by Jo Baker

  When she’s explained who she is, the race official nods Amelia through. She makes her way along a path worn into the grass between trestles and canopies and through the abrupt and concrete talk of men. It’s something like a summer fair, something like an army camp. A bike lies on its back, a young man in track gear giving the front wheel a spin, an older man in a worn brown jacket crouched, frowning at its turn. There’s a smell of cooking that makes her stomach twist, and of mineral oil and chamois and wool and sweat, and through it all is the throbbing sound from beyond, from the crowds. She passes a lad perched on a camping stool; a man kneels on the ground in front of him, the lad’s sinewy bare foot on his lap, the calf muscle like dough in his hands.

  Then she spots Billy.

  For a moment she doesn’t see the collision that is just about to happen, doesn’t even notice the woman walking along the same path as her, just a few yards ahead. Amelia thinks Billy has come looking for her, is stepping over the bench and striding down the grass path to come and find her. His face when he sees her—already here, shoved and pushed and excused herself through the crowds and come to meet him! What a picture. She grins so broadly that it hurts. She raises a hand in a jolly little wave. Her pace quickens over the worn grass path. But then something about his face makes her hesitate. And then she sees. He’s not looking at her, he’s looking at that woman. He is going to her. They reach each other, stand facing, close. Amelia can’t see much of him any more: the woman, with her back to Amelia, obscures Billy almost entirely. But she does see the movement as their hands join. Amelia’s heart rises in her chest. Oh.

  And then the woman turns, and they both come towards her, now arm in arm. The kohl-rimmed stare. The pillarbox lips. The cigarette. The Jewess from the bus. And for a moment she’s so appalled that she doesn’t notice the man in the brown Homburg approaching her son. But then she does, and it makes her heart stand still.

  Billy tugs at Ruby’s hand. He’ll take her somewhere quiet—the lounge bar at the Commercial Hotel. She’ll have a port and lemon in the dim mirrored room and he’ll have a pint and no-one will look at her, no-one will stare, because it will be a different kind of a thing, not just men and sweat and skin, but buttoned-up collars and upright seats and someone in an apron behind a bar who polishes glasses and keeps an eye on things.

  “Come on,” he says.

  She takes his arm; they turn to go. And then he sees his mother. She falters, stops. Stands unsteadily on the worn-out grass. Looking at him and Ruby.

  And then, almost at the same moment, someone taps his arm.

  “Billy Hastings?”

  “Yes—”

  “Billy Hastings as I live and breathe.”

  The man reaches out to shake his hand, and, dazed but gratified, Billy lets his hand be shaken. Then his hand is released, and a race programme is thrust at him. Billy doesn’t look round, he just takes it, then the stub of pencil offered. He watches as his mother turns and walks away.

  “You don’t mind?” the man says.

  “Not at all.”

  “Been following you a while now. Knew you’d make good.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Impressive turn of speed you’ve got there.”

  “Thanks.”

  He peers after his mother. He should be enjoying this, but instead it’s all got complicated and difficult. He should have mentioned Ruby to her sooner. He should have explained. The man taps the top of the programme with a yellowed fingernail, dragging Billy’s attention back.

  “Who’s it for?” Billy asks.

  “George Sully.”

  He looks up. Ten years compact like a squeezebox and he shrinks back to a child. Billy’d told himself that he’d be ready, but he isn’t. Sully’s lips pull back, he bares his teeth. You might call it a smile. Billy swallows, glances back to his ma. She’s moving away across the grass.

  Billy looks back to the One-Eared Man.

  “What do you want?” Billy asks.

  Sully raises his eyebrows in mock protest. “That’s not very welcoming.”

  Sully’s gaze shifts to Ruby. Slides over her body. Ruby’s attention is elsewhere. She shifts on her sinking heels, pulls on Billy’s arm, impatient to be gone.

  “Who’s this then?” Sully asks.

  “Doll, can you just give me a minute?” Billy says.

  Ruby loosens her arm from his, gives him a look. But what can he do? The One-Eared Man is really staring at her now, his face spreading into a slow, real, unpleasant grin. His side teeth are missing on the left.

  “Billy’s terrible like that,” he says, leaning in, hand extended. She gives him just half a glance, not interested. “Never thinks to introduce you, does he? I’m—”

  Billy can’t have this, any of it. Has to cut this off, cut it clean away. He is not a child. He has just won his race: he will not be afraid.

  “Look, that’s my ma,” he says, taking hold of Ruby’s arm, drawing her away. “That lady there, in the suit.” He nods towards Amelia’s retreating back. Fishing in his jacket pocket, he picks out a sixpence. “She looks all done in. Can you go and get yourselves a cup of tea?”

  She takes the coin, hesitates. “You’re not coming?”

  She means the both of them. She means him and Sully and Ma and Ruby all sitting down together for tea and scones and lighthearted chit-chat.

  “Just a bit of business to clear up,” Billy says.

  She raises a perfect narrow eyebrow. Business? Really?

  “Won’t be a moment,” Billy smiles. “I’ll come and find you.”

  Ruby’s not used to being treated like this. He wants to say sorry, he wants to say forgive me, he wants to say just go and get my ma away from here. She gives an almost imperceptible shrug, and she turns and walks away, and the One-Eared Man watches her go. Her jacket reaches mid-thigh, her skirt reaches mid-calf. He watches her legs, in their sheer grey stockings. Billy bristles.

  “Right.”

  The One-Eared Man drags his attention back, grins at Billy.

  “What do you want?” Billy asks.

  “Little chat.” The One-Eared Man jerks his head towards the exit from the grounds, starts fishing in his pockets for cigarettes.

  Billy walks with him in silence, towards the backs of the big houses, joining the lane that leads out onto the street. He’ll want money, Billy thinks, noticing the fraying edge of the older man’s cuff, the greasy sheen at the turn of his collar. He’s wearing a pair of ancient dress shoes, patent leather. They’re worn and scuffed and creased, and one of the creases has split and shows a strip of grey sock. He walks like they’re too tight for him—a flinching kind of walk. Sully is not prospering. But he doesn’t owe him anything, Billy tells himself. Nothing at all.

  They come out onto the street. Clipped privet hedges and sharp looking rose bushes—all sticks and thorns. It’s far enough for Sully: he stops here, rolls onto the sides of his feet, easing the discomfort.

  “So,” Billy says. “What, then?”

  Sully tilts his head. “Been following you a while, Billy-boy. Been impressed with you, my son.”

  Sully lights his cigarette. He offers one to Billy. Billy shakes his head.

  “No, I suppose not,” Sully says. He flicks out his match, draws hard on his cigarette, lets the smoke ooze from the side of his mouth. “Tend to shorten the wind, don’t they?”

  The first spectators are beginning to leave, emerging from the laneway between the houses. The meet is ending. Billy tries to keep his tone light, not wanting to make a scene.

  “Why are you here?”

  Sully raises a brow, as if shocked at the indelicacy of the question. “I take an interest.”

  “You’re not welcome here.”

  “It’s a public place.” Sully leans in closer, drops his voice. “And anyway: friend of the family, aren’t I? Friend of your father’s. And your ma’s. She had a soft spot for me, you know.”

  “You were spinning her a line.”

  Sully incline
s his head, drags on his cigarette again. He holds it between thumb and first and middle fingers, cupped in the shelter of his palm. The tobacco threads flare and crumble into ash. He looks down at the cigarette, turns it, considers it. And the spectators keep coming, straying out onto the empty street, ambling across to the far pavement, others slipping past the two of them, glancing round, spotting Billy, whispering.

  That’s Billy Hastings, that is. That’s the chap who won …

  “Your ma. She’s had a sad life, hasn’t she? Really, when you think of it?”

  “You leave her out of it.”

  “But you wouldn’t want her upset now, would you?”

  “Just try it.” Billy squares himself up.

  Sully smiles unpleasantly, shakes his head, as if Billy is no threat to him at all.

  “It wouldn’t take much. Just a word or two,” Sully says.

  “What?”

  “Your dad. I know a thing or two. A few choice gems.”

  “My father was a hero.” The words come out without the need for thought.

  Sully’s bottom lip draws itself up in the middle, making his chin crumple. A kind of sympathetic smirk. “Course he was, son. Course he was.”

  It prickles through him: those stories Sully told, that never quite came to anything. His father just wandering across the background, not quite there: was it because Sully had had to leave out so much? Was it because the truth, the detailed truth, was not retellable to the widow and the son?

  “I’m not your son,” Billy says.

  “True.”

  “Why would she believe anything you say? She adored him.”

  Sully rubs at his chin. There’s the dry sound of his gingery stubble.

  “True, yes. But you can imagine, can’t you,” Sully asks, “the way that kind of thing would eat at you? Hearing something terrible. Would you want that for her, after everything she’s been through?”

  Then there’s a pause, and Billy feels the weight of it, of all she’s sacrificed for him.

  “Why would you do that, after all this time?”

  “Why d’you think I came back for her in the first place?”

  “You were chancing your arm.”

  Sully narrows his eyes. “See, we’d go drinking together, me and your dad. We’d go chasing after tarts. No great surprise there, of course, everybody does that, given half a chance. And you know some are worse than others and maybe your dad wasn’t that bad. But for a woman like her, a decent woman, hearing about that …” He shakes his head.

  Something in this rings queasily true; after all, Billy knows now what it’s like to be a man. It would be terrible for her to know, even if it changes nothing. His head tumbles with fury and frustration. His first win, and it’s being taken from him. Not just the joy of it, but the money too. Sully is going to take it, or he’ll take his mother’s peace of mind.

  “And the thing is, what you’ve got to see is that I was going to do the decent thing, take care of her, bring up her brat; but him, your dad, he couldn’t face up to it. He was a stinking bloody coward, your dad was.”

  The anger is straightforward. It comes in a great liberating rush: Billy’s fist collides with Sully’s jaw; the older man didn’t even see it coming. His head jerks back, his hat goes spinning, and he staggers, and then hits the green cushion of the privet hedge and sinks slowly into it.

  Billy shakes the sting out of his knuckles. Passers-by stare, move away, leave Billy standing in an empty pool of pavement.

  Whether it’s true or not just doesn’t matter. It only matters that she never hears.

  “You come near my ma—” Billy says.

  Sully smiles. “You sure cycling’s your sport, son?” A pale tongue darts out and licks the narrow lips. He pushes himself up, out of the hedge, brushes down his suit.

  “I’ll kill you. I mean it. If I see you again, I will kill you.”

  “Just give us a few bob, eh? You can spare it.”

  Billy ripples his fingers, clenches them again into a fist. “You’re not getting a penny.”

  Sully holds a hand up. “All right, son. All right.”

  Sully tugs his cuffs down straight with excessive care, then leans down stiffly and picks up his hat.

  “Used to think your dad was a bit touched. The beautiful wife, the job, the kid, not wanting any of it.” Sully cups the crown of his hat in his hand. “Turns out the poor bastard had a bit of sense after all.”

  “Just clear off.”

  Sully tips his hat onto his head. He tweaks the hat brim, and then turns away and shambles off down Burbage Road. From somewhere nearby a blackbird begins to sing. Billy thinks, he just knows how to play me. That’s all it is. He just knows the tender spots and prods right at them. Well, I was ready for him, after all. I was ready for him this time.

  Billy becomes conscious of the voices around him—the spectators moving past him, staring, getting in between him and Sully’s retreating back, blocking the view of him.

  That’s that fellow, that’s Hastings, that’s him. Did you see him in the pursuit? Did you see the way he—?

  Then, through a gap in the crowds, Sully turns, calls back over his shoulder:

  “Keep an eye on that girl of yours, my son.”

  Then he grins, revealing the black gap in the side of his mouth, where the teeth should be. He blows a soft admiring whistle.

  “Girl like that, shouldn’t take your eyes off her for a minute.”

  Portsmouth Docks

  June 3, 1944, 2 p.m.

  THERE ARE THREE SQUADS in front of him, Alfie to his right, and the rest of his squad following behind. The heavy bike ticks along at his side. And behind them there’s everybody else. The whole of Britain, it seems, pushing forward to decant itself into the sea

  From way back a few of them are singing an old song:

  Wash me in the water

  That you wash your dirty daughter in

  But it’s just a couple of voices, and no-one else joins in. The song peters out and the sound is of boots thumping on the road. He looks down at his legs in their green serge, the way they’re swinging him along, like he has nothing to do with it. Like he’s a raindrop on a window, racing down the pane to disappear.

  Then Alfie sings:

  Oh we’ll pump up our tyres till they bust

  And we’ll grind up our pedals till they’re dust

  Billy catches Alfie’s eye, and Alfie flashes him a grin, and Billy blinks, looks away, and Alfie sings on:

  For we are the boys from Butler’s

  The best of British bikes.

  They swing round past the harbour buildings and onto the quay. You can’t see the sea any more. The boats are packed so closely together that they hide the water, and move with a loose unease against the quay. Some of the vessels ride low, weighted with tanks and half-tracks and artillery. The infantry craft, the LCIs, are still empty, and ride higher in the water, waiting for their freight of men.

  His hand sweats on the rubber grip. He shifts it, takes the cool steel instead in his palm. His boots are landing on boards now; between the planks he gets glimpses of the surface of the water. It’s dark, glittering, lapping at the tarred wooden pillars that hold up the jetty. The craft rises up in front of him, sheer-sided, grey, with a gantry down to the pier.

  The head of the column turns and slows; the men filter into single file, begin to clamber up onto the gantry. Alfie slips in ahead of him, Barker in behind. Billy’s mouth is full of spit. He swallows it down. His palms sweat and itch.

  He looks up, at the gulls wheeling and crying above, bastard gulls, nasty dirty shitting gulls. He shuffles forward.

  He bumps the bike up and steps onto the slope. The tilt shifts the weight of his pack and he’s off balance. His foot moves backwards to steady himself; his bike rolls back and the rear wheel knocks into the front wheel of Barker’s bike and there’s a stumble and Billy apologises and Barker says something matey and helpful. Billy grabs the handrail, because that’s what h
e has to do. He climbs. The walkway judders with the men’s footfalls. He bumps the bike down and onto the deck. Gulls stand in a row along the rail, moving their weight from one yellow leathery foot to the other, eyeballing him. He fumbles in a pocket for a cinema ticket, sweet wrapper, something—he picks out a fibrous yellow bus ticket and skims it across towards the birds. One flaps awkwardly into the air, scaring the next one along—the third staggers ungainly along the rail, squawking, flapping.

  “Hate fucking gulls,” he explains sideways to Alfie.

  “You should stop fucking them then.”

  They cross the deck together, their wheels parallel.

  Billy wants to ask him what he thinks of all this. He wonders if it’s as sore for Alfie as it is for him to be faced with this: the salt in the wound.

  “How d’you rate these things?” Billy juts his chin towards the bike.

  Alfie tips his cycle slightly, gives it a considering squint. “It looks like a bike.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I mean, two wheels and frame and forks and even brakes.” Alfie squeezes one, making the back wheel judder on the deck.

  “I can’t get used to having brakes,” Billy says. He can see the sea now, stretching out beyond the harbour wall. It seems to slope up towards the sky, grey, humped, somehow animal. “It just seems like overengineering. Clutter.”

  The men in front are peeling off to stow their bikes, then they’re disappearing through an open doorway, heading below. Stepping down into the dark. Billy’s skin bristles with goosebumps. He takes a breath, blows it out again, steadying himself.

  “Seems to me,” Alfie says, “it’s like so much nowadays. Like powdered egg. And saccharin instead of sugar. And Robinson’s rhubarb cordial instead of blackcurrant, and margarine not butter on your toast, and flippin parsnips in your cake.”

  “What are you on about?”