by Andrea Levy
He left with no more ceremony than if he was going to the bank. I wanted to hug him, whisper into his ear to be sure to tell me what he was doing, to show me what he was seeing in all those foreign places. But he stiffened like a plank of best mahogany, then bent to kiss my cheek. Watching him walking down our road – his forage cap sitting at an angle on his head, his kit-bag lolling like a corpse over his shoulder – I thought, He is so thin that any enemy soldier would have to have a ruddy good aim to hit him. It was a strange thought, not one I’d have shared with anyone, but funnily enough I found it comforting. The pity of it was he wouldn’t have known that I was watching him through the window, let alone that I was worrying. And when he was finally out of view, the road screamed with emptiness. I couldn’t help what came to my mind next – it just sneaked up behind me to sigh over my shoulder: he’ll not be able to post it home so you’ll never get pregnant now, Queenie.
Early Bird, my teacher at Bolsbrooke Elementary School, taught us all in English grammar that an apostrophe is a mark to show where something is missing. And that was how I’d always seen Bernard’s father, Arthur: a human apostrophe. He was there but only to show us that something precious had gone astray. When Bernard said he was being posted overseas I asked him who was going to look after his father now. A bewildered expression was all I got to tell me that I was.
Arthur never spoke. He shook his head, he nodded, he grunted, he sighed, he even tutted. But no word came through his lips – not even his sneeze would accidentally say, ‘A tissue.’ But gradually I came to notice his eyebrows. Two dark, thick, bushy lines roving over his forehead. I forgot about waiting for his lips to move and started reading those hairy brows instead. They were more expressive than Bernard’s mouth had ever been. Two upward flicks and he was asking if I’d like a cup of tea. One up one down, and he wanted to know if I was sure.
And it didn’t take me long to appreciate that Arthur was a magician. Out in the garden all day he could pull carrots, cabbages, potatoes, turnips, swedes, parsnips out of rubble and stone. One day I came home to find him holding up an onion for me. Big as a ball, a perfect specimen, its skin golden brown and crackling. He laughed when I asked, ‘Where in heaven’s name did you get that?’ Then slowly he revealed another one in his other hand. What wonderful things – I could have gone into the street and sold them for twenty guineas each. No one had seen an onion for months. But Arthur had two. And it was him that lovingly cooked me the sausage and mash with onion gravy.
He would queue for hours for food. Lines and lines and lines of women and then Arthur – this ageing gentleman trussed up in his gaberdine with his little cloth bag – standing still and silent as a monument to patience. They’d let him in the queue in front of them sometimes, the women: they felt sorry for him just like I once did. He looked broken, trembling at the slightest noise, his face changing from plain-day to wild and hunted at the drop of a pin. But he wasn’t. Without Bernard fussing about him, pulling, coaxing, he began to unfurl as sure as a flower that finally feels the sun when the tree is gone. And in the evenings the rotten beggar always beat me at Monopoly. His metal boot silently hoarding the board until the only course of action left to me was to declare war, sound a siren, then bomb all his blinking hotels and houses to bits.
‘None of your rubbish.’ That was how Franny, who worked with me at the rest centre, described them. ‘Flyers. 103 Squadron. Lancasters. God’s honest truth. Go on, Queenie, they deserve a bit of home comfort.’ Three officers on leave for a couple of days in London before going back on active duty at their airbase in Lincolnshire. ‘It’s a favour to me, really. And to my sister, who’s very keen on Kip. Go on. Just for a couple of days. I know you’ve got the room.’
If Bernard had still been there it would have been a stony no, bomber crew or no bomber crew. Arthur was so amazed that I asked his permission, his face went blank as white bread. Then one ponderous eyebrow lifted before he nodded, yes.
The tea was too weak – both officers looked down at their cups distrusting, not wanting to swallow what they had in their mouths. They were the last leaves we had left and, in all honesty, I had used them before. I hoped this third officer was going to turn up before the pot got cold otherwise I’d have nothing to give him except some boiled-up dandelion leaves, which Arthur, and only Arthur, thought a refreshing alternative drink. The redheaded officer had skin so pale it looked to be dusted with flour. Still a boy, he giggled nervously before and after anything he said. He introduced himself as Walter but said everyone called him Ginger. I didn’t ask why. But I did ask the other one why everyone called him Kip.
‘Because it’s my name,’ he said. ‘It’s short for Kipling.’ He was dark with a thick moustache and a deep blue chin, a growth of beard just itching to get out. He went on to explain, while carefully placing his untouched cup on the table, that his mother was an ardent admirer of Kipling. ‘So it could have been worse – she was also fond of Brontë and Trollope.’
‘Right . . .’ I said, and was just going to ask what happened to the other chap when there were three sharp knocks at the door.
‘Ah, there’s the other member of our party,’ Kip said.
The RAF man’s hand was raised almost in salute, ready to knock at the door once more. But that wasn’t the first thing I noticed. I was lost in Africa again at the Empire Exhibition, a little girl in a white organza frock with blood rising in my cheeks turning me red. He was coloured.
‘Are you Mrs Bligh? Have I got the right number? Only I try three houses and they tell me this the right one.’ He looked up the street again. ‘I am Sergeant Roberts,’ he said. His face awakened to smile a grin so broad and white you could have projected a film on it. ‘You have Ginger and Kip here? You expecting me? May I come in?’
Arthur didn’t even try to hide his surprise, his eyebrows rose so startled they got lost in his hair. I thought I was going to have to shake him as Kip said, ‘Michael Roberts – well, well, well, late as usual.’
A direct hit from a fifty-tonner, that was what it sounded like. The house was rumbling and on the landing I was faced with a big blue bottom sliding towards me down the banister. It landed with a painful thump against the newel post because another of the officers had followed on behind and slid into his head. They were both laughing. It was Ginger who fell off on to the floor rubbing his skull. The coloured one, Michael, was jumping down the stairs three at a time. He leap-frogged over Ginger’s head shouting, ‘I win me bet. Stairs are quicker, boys. Come on, pay up.’ I swear he flew off the last step, landing right in front of me then tripping. I put my hand out to steady him. Before I knew it he was holding me up, one arm on mine, the other round my waist saying, ‘Mrs Bligh, please forgive me. So sorry.’
On hearing my name Ginger began straightening himself while Kip, doing the same, said, ‘Ah, Mrs Bligh, just testing out your banisters. Very strong.’ He hit it with a fist, miming ‘ouch’.
I felt so old standing there in my ugly headscarf and my apron, a half-peeled potato in my hand, with these three young men, my age, shuffling about in front of me trying to stifle their giggles like I was their scolding mum. I used to lark once. ‘Beardy, beardy, you’re barmy – can’t you join the army?’ But the pity was I couldn’t remember when I last choked back the giggles or jumped steps three at a time.
‘We needed to have a word, Mrs Bligh,’ Kip began, trying to be more sober. ‘We may be late coming back. Will that matter?’
‘No, Arthur can let you in. I’ll tell him.’
‘Thank you, that’s very kind of you,’ he said, looking to the others. He was obviously used to talking for them. ‘Well, I hope you have a pleasant evening.’
‘And you,’ I said.
No sooner was the front door open than Kip grabbed Ginger’s cap from his head, and leaped down the stairs while Ginger managed to kick Kip’s departing backside. But Michael, the coloured one, walked out slowly, then turned back round and gave me another of his picture-house smiles.
* * *
Only Michael appeared in the morning. Standing at the kitchen door his shirt collar open, his sleeves rolled up, he waited for a moment before saying, ‘Good morning.’
And I don’t know why I jumped – I knew he was there. All I had to say was ‘Good morning’ back, put the kettle on the stove and light the gas. But I held the kettle in front of me and said, ‘Would you like some . . .?’ then completely forgot the name of that brown stuff we’re always drinking.
‘Tea?’ he said.
I giggled, tea, then poured the cold water from the kettle into the teapot.
‘Yes, thank you, that would be nice. You have big house here.’
‘My husband . . . well, Arthur . . .’
‘Arthur is your husband?’
‘No, no, no!’ I almost screamed.
He held up his hands – his palms were pink and slashed with deep brown lines. ‘Oh, pardon me,’ he said.
‘No . . . no . . . It’s all right. My husband is in service overseas.’
‘Army, navy?’
‘Yes.’
‘Which one?’
‘No. Sorry. RAF.’
‘RAF. You sure?’
That blinking silly giggle again. ‘Yes,’ I said, pouring the tea from the pot to a cup. I could see it was clear cold water with a few brown specks floating on the top, but blow me if I could think of a sensible thing to do about it.
I took the kettle and put it on the stove. I tried to strike a match. The first one broke, the second flew out of my hand across the kitchen floor. The third I just dropped before he said, ‘Let me help you there.’ As he took the matches from my hand his fingers glanced against mine. Once the stove was lit he was standing so close to me I wasn’t sure whether the heat I could feel was coming from the gas ring or from him. He smelt of his night out – cigarettes, beer and a faint whiff of female cologne. He looked at the cup of water I’d made, then back at me. The corners of his mouth creased just a little – hardly a smile, more like pity. I stepped back, away from him.
‘Where are the others?’ I said, fussing with my hair. I was sure there was something wrong with it. Or my face. I’d taken care that morning for the first time since I can remember. I’d curled my hair but a bit of fringe still flopped all straight. I had such little lipstick left I had to push my fingernail right down into the tube to get any out. No powder, no rouge. I pinched my cheeks for pink but maybe I’d done it too much – scratched my face, made weals come up. Because even if he wasn’t using his eyes he was examining me. Or maybe I’d overdone my lily-of-the-valley.
‘Ginger’s still asleep. He had a good night. But Kip? I cannot tell you a lie, Mrs Bligh . . .’
‘Queenie, please call me Queenie,’ I said, then regretted it as his eyes, lively as fairy lights, ran the wrong way all over those words as sure as if I’d written them backwards on a page.
‘Queenie,’ he said slowly, then added, ‘Kip did not return with us. His young lady had something else in mind for him.’
‘What was that?’ I asked.
He sat down, lifting his face to look at me before I realised what a daft question it was. But, being a fool, I still waited for his reply. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know what it was,’ he finally said.
I went to the sink, turning my back to him. My legs were bare, my feet a little apart. I closed them together. I knew my dress had an odd button at the front. I put my hand up to feel it. The button was undone! I quickly did it up. Blinking fringe kept falling over my eye as I picked up the teapot. The dress I had on was a little too short and a little too tight. I knew he was watching me. I tried to relax my pose – lifting my weight on to one foot. But I worried that it made the dress look shorter and pulled across the hips so I stood back straight. I was aware of what every single part of me was doing. Bits that used to work on their own suddenly needed my control. Move hand and don’t shake. Come on, Lungs, in and out, in and out. Stop swallowing, Throat! I couldn’t pour the precious tea away: it was unused and Arthur had queued for hours for it. I took the strainer and poured the water out through it – the puddle of leaves collecting. All the time I was thinking, I bet he’s wondering what the blinking heck I’m doing. The plughole started to slurp loudly as the water went down it. I put my finger in the hole to try to stop the disgusting noise in case he believed it was me. I could smell burning as he said, ‘Queenie?’ I turned round so fast I knocked the tea strainer off the draining-board. The tea splattered on to the floor, bursting a shrapnel of black spots up my leg. I know he saw but he was busy taking the kettle off the stove – so carefully, his hand wrapped awkwardly in his pulled-down shirt sleeve. ‘Perhaps,’ he said, shaking the kettle a little to show me, ‘we should put some water into this.’
I only noticed he had a moustache later that evening when he was standing at my door. I’d thought it a black shadow against his lip. But in the dull electric light of the hallway I could see it was the thinnest line of stubby hair. Leaning casually against the doorframe, his jacket slung over his shoulder he asked, ‘Would you perchance have a tin-opener?’
‘Why do you want a tin-opener?’
‘So I may open a tin.’
I found that answer a little rude. I’m not that daft. ‘I thought you had all gone out for the evening.’
He stood up straight, lifting his arm to rest high on the doorframe beside me. ‘They both have companions they are going to meet and I am a little tired.’ He started to rummage in the pockets of his jacket and pulled out a tin of ham. He handed it to me, saying, ‘It needs a tin-opener.’ Still feeling in his jacket he produced a bar of American chocolate and, I hardly recognised it, an orange. ‘And these need someone to share them.’
I hoped I wasn’t too eager when I said, ‘Well, why don’t you come and join us, then?’
‘Are you gambling?’ I asked. I’d not been out in the kitchen that long but when I got back Michael and Arthur had cards fanned in their hands and the table between them was piled with little stacks of coppers.
‘No, I am gambling,’ Michael said, without looking at me. ‘Your father-in-law here knows he is going to win.’
‘How d’you mean?’
‘Because he is cheating.’
Cheeky beggar, I thought. He may have brought the food but he was still a guest. ‘Arthur does not cheat,’ I told him.
‘Oh yes he does. I don’t know how he do it but he does.’
‘I think that is very rude of you.’
‘Queenie, if he is not cheating then let me assure you that your father-in-law here is the luckiest man on this earth.’
And I was saying, ‘I really think you should apologise . . .’ when Arthur looked up at me and winked. It was meant only for me but nothing could get past this RAF man – he was a rear-gunner, after all. Or was it that all of his kind were so sharp-eyed? He glanced from me to Arthur and back again. ‘So, I am right. But no problem. You know why? Because you are a skilful cheat, Mr Bligh. Give me one more game, nah, see if I can learn your secrets.’
As Arthur shuffled the pack, his hands dealing so fast they blurred, Michael said, ‘So now, Queenie, if I am not mistaken it is you who must owe me the apology,’ adding, ‘but later will do.’
He kept flicking at the edges of his cards, making deep-throated umming sounds. He’d slowly shake his head, tip it to one side, then the other, as he watched Arthur, who sat as still as a sunny Sunday afternoon. Michael was the colour of a conker – not ruddy and new from the shell but after it had dulled in your pocket for a bit. As he leaned forward to pick up a card his shirt gaped to show that dark skin all over his chest. Would you know he was naked when he was undressed or would he look like he was clad all over in leather?
‘Mr Bligh,’ he said, ‘you willing to teach me your secret?’
‘He doesn’t speak,’ I told him.
‘I know – I am watching those eyebrows,’ he said.
Did his hair feel like hair or something you’d scrub a pan with? Would it chafe against you
r skin or would it brush gentle as an angora jumper?
‘You win again,’ he said. The inside of his mouth was pink as a powder puff. His lips plump as sausages – would you bounce off them or would they soften when kissed?
‘Come, Mr Bligh, you take all me money, you wan’ show me something in return?’
But Arthur got up. He packed away the cards and counted the coppers on the table as efficiently as Bernard would.
‘You can’t leave me so arouse – come, tell me how you do that?’
Slipping the clinking coppers into his pocket, Arthur nodded good night – first to Michael, placing a finger to the side of his nose, and then to me with another wink – before leaving the room. Michael lifted his eyes to me. I thought he was going to say something so I held his gaze. But he didn’t. One of us had to look away first. And it had to be me, I was burning up.
‘I didn’t know he did that – he’s a constant surprise to me,’ I said. Michael was still staring, still silent. ‘Well, I should be getting to bed,’ I said.
‘Won’t you stay awhile with me?’
‘It’s late.’
‘I will be gone tomorrow. Why don’t you ask me all the questions you have been thinking about sitting quiet there?’
‘What questions?’
‘I don’t know – you tell me.’
‘What makes you think I’ve got questions?’
‘So you no curious about this coloured man in your house?’
He wasn’t reading my mind, it was me – I was too obvious. ‘Okay . . .’ I said. ‘Where are you from?’
‘Where am I from?’ He repeated the question two more times to himself.
‘Is it too hard for you? Should I ask you something easier?’ I asked.
‘Jamaica.’
‘In Africa?’
He made a strange noise, as if he was sucking out a bit of trapped gristle from between his front teeth. ‘Why every English person I meet think Jamaica is in Africa?’