V for Victory

by Lissa Evans

  ‘More turkey, anyone?’ asked Vee, reaching out to the plate and knocking her glass of sherry over the remains of the sausage stuffing. ‘Damn.’

  ‘Here’s to the Russians consolidating their hold on Budapest.’

  ‘Where is that?’ asked Vee. ‘I think my mother went to Bude once.’

  ‘Hungary,’ said Noel.

  ‘I have no great desire to travel,’ said Dr Parry-Jones, her diction unnaturally precise, ‘but I sometimes wish I could have visited the Antipodes. I have read that a male kangaroo can leap over a twelve-foot fence.’

  ‘I saw one in the zoo the same day that I saw Ming the Panda,’ said Miss Appleby. ‘It had a tiny little baby kangaroo in its pouch.’

  ‘London Zoo doesn’t have kangaroos,’ said Noel. ‘I imagine that what you saw was a wallaby.’

  ‘That’s what it was doing,’ said Miss Appleby, with a shriek, bouncing her fingers across the table. ‘It was going wallaby wallaby wallaby all over the place.’

  Noel stood and started to clear the dishes.

  ‘Where’s our genial transatlantic visitor got to?’ asked Mr Reddish, twisting round to look at the kitchen door, his face still shining with the lingering joy of the corporal’s first remark to him – ‘Say, did anyone ever tell you that you look like President Roosevelt?’

  By way of reply, the clank of pipes heralded the flushing of the bathroom lavatory, and it was followed shortly afterwards by the sound of Leviathan descending the stairs. ‘Never been in a place this size before,’ he said, his voice preceding him by several yards. ‘You have servants?’

  ‘Just me,’ muttered Noel.

  ‘More turkey?’ asked Vee, for at least the fifth time. She had a very high colour – in fact, everyone in the room looked rather pink and dishevelled, as if they’d just finished dancing round a maypole, the maypole in question being Corporal Mario O’Mahoney.

  ‘Surely there must be many houses as large as this in the United States of America,’ said Dr Parry-Jones.

  ‘I’m from the city,’ said Mario. ‘I grew up in an apartment. No one where I come from has a house like this – I had to hire a guide to find the bathroom.’

  Everyone laughed with a vigour that suggested they were in the presence of Oscar Wilde.

  ‘When I was a little girl,’ said Dr Parry-Jones – a phrase that Noel had never before heard her use – ‘I went to a Christmas party in a house this size, and we played Sardines. I have never forgotten it.’

  ‘Sardines? Is that like Blackjack?’ asked the corporal, without apparent facetiousness.

  ‘What is Blackjack?’ enquired Dr Parry-Jones.

  ‘It’s a card game favoured by professional gamblers,’ said Noel. ‘An American variant of Pontoon or Vingt-et-Un.’

  ‘No, no, Sardines is quite different. What happens is that a chosen person finds a place of concealment …’

  Noel picked a scrap of chicken from his plate and let it melt on his tongue. The brine recipe had been a triumph, but everyone except himself had eaten turkey. And now never again would Fleur mistake his shoelaces for a worm.

  ‘Surely that’s just Hide and Seek,’ said Miss Appleby.

  ‘No, in Hide and Seek one person searches while everyone else hides, whereas Sardines is completely the opposite,’ said Dr Parry-Jones, firmly. ‘Eventually, only one person is still looking while all the others are packed together in the hiding-place like sardines.’

  ‘Hey, kid, want to see something else disappear?’ asked the corporal, holding a cork in one palm. He tossed it in the air, bounced it off one elbow, caught it in his gigantic mouth and swallowed, and then plucked another cork from behind one of Noel’s ears. There were gasps and applause and Noel went into the larder to look at the blancmange, taking The History of European Architecture with him.

  ‘Oh, there you are,’ said Vee, a few minutes later. ‘We’re going to play Sardines.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Noel.

  ‘Oh, go on,’ she said, giving his arm a pat. ‘Just some Christmas fun. Mario’s hiding first. I know it’s silly but … it means we don’t have to sit and listen to Mr Reddish talking about young ladies, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Everyone’s drunk.’

  ‘Everyone’s enjoying themselves, for once in their lives. I’m sure I saw the doctor smile – unless it was wind. Won’t you join in?’

  ‘All right. As soon as I finish this page.’ When she left, he turned the blancmange round again, and took another spoonful. He waited until he could no longer hear footsteps criss-crossing overhead, and then he exited the larder. He walked past the wreckage of the Christmas dinner, into the hall and up the stairs, pausing at the top. He knew precisely where the others were hiding; every creak and scuff in this house was familiar to him, and whilst in the larder he had several times heard a footstep hitting the slightly sunken floorboard at the western end of the first-floor passage – hitting it once and not returning. He walked softly past the row of doors, skirted the tell-tale floorboard and listened outside the lumber room. There was a taut silence within, broken by a frilly giggle from Miss Appleby. Noel was just debating whether to enter the room, or whether to leave them in there for a while longer, crouched amidst the umbrella stands and disintegrating taxidermy, when the front-door bell rang. It rang for a second time just before he reached the door, and he opened it to find a naval officer holding a bunch of holly.

  ‘Oh, good-oh,’ said the man, seeing Noel. He was fair-haired, with the regular features of a Forces recruitment poster and a boyish air belied by the crumpled skin beneath his eyes. ‘I was just beginning to wonder if anyone were in. Merry Christmas.’ Smiling, he held out the holly. ‘Terribly sorry, this is all I could find to bring.’

  ‘Merry Christmas,’ said Noel, politely, not taking it. ‘Do you want Miss Appleby?’

  ‘Miss Appleby? No, I don’t think so. Should I want her? Is it a rule?’

  ‘No, I meant …’

  ‘I was actually looking for Miss Simpkin. Miss Matilda Simpkin.’

  The world swung like a weathercock and Noel had to put a hand on the door frame to steady himself.

  ‘She’s not here,’ he said. ‘And she was Doctor, not Miss. She died five years ago.’

  ‘Oh, did she? I’m so sorry, I had no idea. And I don’t suppose you know what happened to the child who lived with her? He’d be about …’ He paused, his gaze sliding past Noel and then jerking back to him. ‘Oh!’ He gave a huff of incredulous laughter. ‘I think I’m being an idiot, aren’t I – it’s you, isn’t it? Neil.’

  ‘Noel.’

  ‘Noel, sorry. Of course. Which means … well, I don’t quite know how to tell you this. Straight out, I suppose, bite the bullet – it means I’m your father. Here.’ He offered the spiked bouquet again. This time Noel took it – or, rather, a hand that was apparently his reached out and grasped the stems; they’d been torn or twisted rather than cut, and were bound together with a length of twine. A couple of berries rolled over his knuckles and dropped to the ground.

  ‘I know I’ve just given you a hell of a shock, but I don’t suppose you have anything to eat, do you?’ asked the officer. ‘I’m straight off the ship, and they’ve not given us a penny in shore pay. I’m absolutely famished.’

  ‘Yes.’ Noel dragged his eyes away from the holly. ‘Yes, I … could you wait here a moment?’

  ‘Here? You mean, outside? Can’t I come in?’

  ‘No,’ said Noel, picturing the current occupants of the lumber room. ‘Sorry.’

  He stepped back into the house and closed the door, and then immediately re-opened it, because what had just happened couldn’t possibly have happened; the naval officer was still there, however, hands in the pockets of his duffel coat, his breath clouding the air. ‘I’ll be quick,’ said Noel, closing it again. The house was silent, the sardines still hiding in their tin, and he raced to the kitchen, lobbing the holly into the sink, taking Vee’s string bag from the hook and gathering food almost randomly – a half-fu
ll bottle of wine, the drumsticks torn from the chicken carcass and wrapped in a tea-towel, a dense wedge of fruitcake, a jar of pickled beetroot and, finally, a handful of chocolates that he shoved into the pockets of his coat as he passed through the hall again. In the drawing room, he grabbed a box of matches and some paper spills from a brass pot in the grate, and then shouted, ‘Just going out!’ as the door closed behind him. The officer was standing halfway down the path, looking up at the house, and Noel swung round to share his view. The low sun had reddened the bricks and blanked the windows. ‘Good-looking pile,’ said the officer. ‘So if I can’t come in, where are you taking me?’

  ‘It’s not far.’ Noel walked fast, uphill towards the Heath end of the lane, skirting the vast sand-pits that had been gouged out earlier in the war and were now disused and grassy. Crescents of unmelted frost lay along their northern edges.

  ‘Might have to slow down a bit,’ said the naval man, from behind. ‘I’m actually convalescing. Currently a bit of a crock, I’m afraid.’

  Noel waited for him to catch up. ‘Were you injured at sea?’

  ‘No. Inglorious pneumonia while in port. Left me with a wheeze.’ He paused to catch his breath, his lips purplish. There seemed nothing familiar about his face, no feature or angle that Noel had ever seen in his own mirror.

  ‘What’s your name?’ he asked, abruptly.

  The officer flipped a salute. ‘Lieutenant Simeon Foster. Generally known as Sim. And you’re Noel …?’

  ‘Bostock.’

  ‘Bostock? Where does that come from?’

  ‘It was my godmother’s alias, when she was a suffragette on the run from the police.’

  Sim’s laugh turned into a cough.

  ‘I’m not making a joke,’ said Noel, coldly.

  ‘No, no …’ Sim flapped a hand as if to waft away offence. ‘It was a laugh of considerable admiration. I came across your godmother a couple of times, and she left quite an impression. Shall we carry on?’

  Noel took a path that wove through the trees, and then ducked under an oak branch that thrust out horizontally at head height. Beyond it was a clearing, the ground crisp with leaf-litter, and a ring of stones in the centre with three logs arranged as seating around it.

  ‘We can light a fire here,’ he said, already hunting for sticks. ‘The Hampstead Boy Scouts use it quite often.’

  ‘Are you a Scout?’

  ‘No,’ said Noel, with disdain.

  ‘I was, once. I had a fight with the Scoutmaster’s son, and was thrown out. Do you need some help with that? It’s just that every time I lean over, I start coughing …’

  ‘No, it’s all right, I’ll do it.’

  Quickly and neatly, conscious of having an audience, Noel laid and lit a fire. The sticks were dry and the flames almost smokeless.

  ‘That’s the ticket,’ said Sim, taking off his mittens and holding his palms to the warmth. ‘Very slick indeed. You’re quite the woodsman.’

  Noel carried on gathering fuel until he had a decent pile, and then he gathered some more, since the alternative was to sit down and engage in a conversation that was too enormous to contemplate. ‘The fine young woman who gave birth to you,’ Mattie had said, ‘was not in a position to raise a child, and she decided that the best place for you to grow up would be here, with me, and there is not a minute of the day, young Noel – not even a second – when her decision fails to bring me joy, and I daily mouth an encomium to the soundness of her judgement. Encomium? Latin for “speech of praise”, though the word is originally derived from the Greek – think of those two tongues as jigsaw pieces from which we construct the broad and colourful picture of the English language. With odd gaps for Celtic words, of course.’ She had never said anything about his father, and Noel had never thought to ask.

  ‘Well, this is a feast!’ said Sim, laying the contents of the string bag along the log, and unscrewing the lid of the pickled beetroot.

  ‘Why haven’t you come to see me before?’ asked Noel.

  ‘Didn’t know you existed.’ He extracted a piece of beetroot with his fingers, and swallowed it whole, like an oyster. ‘Do you know, when I was a little boy, I once drank a whole cup of vinegar.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I never could resist a dare.’ He grinned and patted the seat next to him, and Noel, instead, sat on the next log, so that he could see the whole of Sim’s face. There was a brightness to it that drew the eye.

  ‘I’ll tell you the story,’ said Sim, between bites of chicken. ‘We were docked in Gibraltar for repairs. I came down with the lurgy and the ship’s doctor had me transferred to the hospital – lucky me, half-decent food and nurses flitting round, I was in clover if only I’d known it, only I was off my head half the time. When I was starting to feel better they moved me to another ward and while they were tucking me in, up came the Sister – tall, striking redhead, like Queen Elizabeth processing along the Mall, patients springing to attention, junior nurses practically salaaming—’

  ‘Was that her?’ asked Noel, the three syllables so impacted that only the question mark was clearly intelligible.

  ‘I’m coming to that – so she stopped by the bed, took one look at me, and it was as if she’d been sand-bagged. She actually swayed on her feet. I wondered whether I’d broken out in spots or turned green, and then I realized there was something awfully familiar about her face. I heard one of the little nurses call her Sister Pearse, and the penny dropped, and I said, “We’ve met, haven’t we? A long time ago,” and she turned away and went racing off on her rounds again, but I could tell that something was up. So I thought, Sim, old man, you’d better try and have a proper powwow with this lady, and so when I …’ His voice trailed away, his animated expression suddenly fixed as he looked at Noel and seemed to see, for the first time, the tense angle of his neck, his face thrust forward, the better to catch every word.

  ‘Hang on,’ he said. ‘I’m doing this all wrong. I’m telling you this as if it were a mess anecdote, not a … a …’ He rubbed his mouth rather awkwardly. ‘What an awful fool I’m being,’ he said. ‘Crass. You’re only a youngster.’

  ‘I’m fifteen.’

  ‘Still. I’m sorry. I really should have asked you first if you knew anything about your parentage. I don’t want to shock you. For all that I know, your Miss Simpkin – Dr Simpkin – might have spun you a yarn to spare your feelings.’

  ‘My feelings about what?’

  ‘Well … that you’re not …’

  ‘Legitimate? I knew that already.’

  ‘Oh. What else did you know?’

  He shrugged. ‘Nothing, really.’

  ‘You weren’t curious?’

  Noel shook his head rather slowly. Why hadn’t he been curious? Perhaps life with Mattie had left no empty corners for brooding in. ‘I was told that my mother was not in a position to raise a child.’

  ‘No,’ said Sim, soberly. ‘No. She wouldn’t have been. She was terribly young. We were both terribly young.’ He raised his hands to the fire again. ‘So you were told nothing about me, then?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I don’t suppose your Dr Simpkin had much use for men. She probably thought I was a bad lot.’

  ‘Are you?’

  Sim laughed. ‘No worse than anyone else, I hope. So should I go on, then?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well. I couldn’t wangle a conversation with the sister when I was still a patient – to be frank, she wouldn’t come within yards of me – but the day I was discharged, I hung around outside the hospital and caught her when she finished work and, well, there you have it … Of course, I’d had no idea at the time, I’d left London by then. I never knew.’

  ‘That she was pregnant with me, you mean?’

  ‘Yes. I must say, you’re very forthright.’

  ‘Mattie didn’t believe in euphemisms. Where had you gone, then?’

  ‘Cambridge. Rusticated after a couple of terms, I’m afraid – I’m not cut out for
study.’

  ‘Were you engaged to be married?’

  ‘Lord, no! It was just a – no.’

  ‘And what’s her name?’

  ‘Ida. Ida Pearse. A very fine girl.’

  It was the same word that Mattie had used: ‘fine’ had been one of her highest accolades, the single syllable large with implications of principle, pluck, nobility.

  ‘And how did you meet her?’

  ‘She was in a girls’ club on the Heath, run by your godmother.’

  ‘The Amazons?’

  ‘That’s right. You know about it?’

  ‘I recently met someone else who’d been a member. Can you tell me anything more about her?’

  ‘Redhead, as I said. Touch of the Burne-Jones about her looks.’

  Noel swiftly averted his thoughts from an image of tall, high-breasted girls wrapped in pleated grey silk descending a staircase with indolent grace.

  ‘And she was a nurse?’

  ‘Not when I met her. She was only …’

  ‘What? How old was she?’

  ‘Fifteen.’

  ‘Fifteen? My age?’ Abruptly, Noel stood up and walked stiff-legged around the clearing, switching direction aimlessly, stooping to pick up a twig, tossing it towards the fire and missing. ‘And how old were you?’

  ‘I was nearly eighteen.’

  ‘Why didn’t she tell you that she was pregnant?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘But you talked to her. In Gibraltar. Didn’t you ask?’

  ‘It wasn’t a … detailed conversation. She really didn’t want to discuss it. But of course, once I knew you existed, I had to find out where you were. It’s not every day one discovers one has a son.’

  ‘Don’t you have other children?’

  ‘No. No, you’re my sole heir.’

  ‘Does she?’

  ‘Ida? Not as far as I know. And she’s certainly a spinster – married nurses aren’t allowed, certainly not ones as senior as she appears to be.’

  Noel carried on his circling of the clearing. A magpie was cackling nearby, and the naval officer heaved a branch on to the fire, and coughed as the sparks burst upwards, but the scene felt distant and artificial, as if he were watching from a seat at the back of the stalls.