V for Victory

by Lissa Evans

  The Boy Scouts were back, spring-heeled, tireless. ‘Gas board want a word with you, Warden,’ said Terry. ‘They think you should evacuate Wixell Row. They’re outside number 17.’

  ‘Right-oh.’ She tucked the cards into her jacket pocket.

  ‘Anything you want us to do?’

  ‘Yes. Polesworth’s inside – ask him to phone Control and check that casualties should still be sent to St Mary’s, only we’re hearing from the ambulance drivers that it’s getting full.’ She was walking away as she spoke, skirting the WVS van that was slowly crunching over a surface of shattered roof-slates. ‘And get yourselves something from the canteen truck.’

  ‘What about you, Warden?’

  ‘Tea and a slice, please,’ she said, breaking into a jog.

  ‘… so they hired a car,’ said Jepson, ‘quite a swish one, and called at various shops, and explained, using official language, that they were Board of Trade inspectors and that there were counterfeit coupons circulating in the district. So the shopkeepers would get out the coupons, and the thieves would examine them very carefully – they even had a magnifying glass and what they claimed was a special rubber that only worked on genuine ink – and they’d declare that at least half the coupons were probably forged, and would have to be checked by an expert at the office, and then they’d issue a receipt, and promise to return.’

  ‘And then they’d never come back!’ said Vee, riveted.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘So how did they get caught?’

  ‘From what I remember, one of them got collared for something else, and confessed.’

  ‘And they went to prison?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Hard labour on the Isle of Wight.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Vee, suddenly breathless. They were still sitting back to back, but she’d been so caught up in Jepson’s stories – told with great journalistic flair and economy – that she’d briefly forgotten her own peril and had half turned towards him. She snapped her gaze back to the door again, but no one new had come in for a while. The V-2 that had rattled the window an hour or so before seemed to have frightened off shoppers, though it had dropped far enough away not to have caused any local damage – Jepson had nipped out to check, and had returned with the reassuring news that it was west of them, and nowhere near Noel, and home.

  ‘I had someone who worked at the Board of Trade as a lodger once,’ said Vee. ‘Mr Titus. He was a good payer, but he never cleaned his teeth and his breath smelled so bad that Noel used to call him Titus … something … oh, what was it? A word that meant “stink” – he said it was ancient Greek, and it rhymed.’

  ‘Mephitis?’

  ‘Yes, that’s the one. Titus Mephitis.’ She hadn’t ever heard Jepson laugh before, and the noise was amusing in itself – a breezy giggle, quite at odds with his usual gravity. Vee aimed another look at the door. It was nearly five o’clock and already dark.

  ‘What time was he supposed to arrive?’ asked Jepson.

  ‘After two. That’s all he put. Though I suppose it might be a she – I never thought of that.’

  ‘Do you have the letter with you?’ asked Jepson. ‘I know you’ve told me what’s in it, but handwriting can be very revealing.’

  Vee took the envelope from her handbag and passed it behind her. She heard the rustle as Jepson extracted the single sheet of paper, and the pause as he read the pencilled lines.

  ‘Oh,’ he said, his voice light with surprise. ‘Yes, I’d say that’s a man’s handwriting – and an educated man, at that – but the thing is, there’s hardly anything here.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘There are no details at all, nothing concrete, no reference to St Albans, no mention that Noel was your evacuee. He doesn’t even know your real name.’

  ‘How can you tell?’

  ‘Because he’d almost certainly have used that knowledge to frighten you. The phrase “I am aware that you are not actually Noel Bostock’s aunt” is terribly nonspecific. Any blackmailer worth his salt would have begun the letter with …’ Jepson lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘“Dear Vera Sedge” and put you straight on to the back foot.’

  It was years since she’d heard her full name spoken, and she hadn’t missed it. ‘Vera’ had always sounded to her like the low moan of a cow waiting to be milked. ‘So you don’t think it’s someone who knew me in the past, then? Someone who moved to London and spotted me?’

  ‘Judging from this, I’d say not. I think the letter’s a clever guess – someone who’s picked up a hint in some way and is attempting to put two and two together.’

  ‘But what sort of hint? I’m always careful, and I know that Noel wouldn’t ever …’ She thought again about what Jepson had just said. ‘Putting two and two together – you mean that someone looked at me and looked at the boy and thought we didn’t fit and started wondering?’ Because she’d never lost her awareness of this – the clang of her own accent against the precision of his, the way that he spoke sentences with the ease of a croupier shuffling a deck, while she doled out words from a sticky pack.

  ‘I think you fit together very well,’ said Jepson. ‘Matching jigsaw pieces don’t have to look identical. He was lucky to find you.’

  He’d said little when she’d given him a carefully filleted version of her story – how she’d done a flit from St Albans to keep Noel with her, leaving her mother and her own grown-up son, Donald, behind (not that either would have begged her to stay; in fact, she had her doubts whether they’d even noticed she’d gone, but she hadn’t mentioned that bit). How she’d pretended to be Noel’s dead aunt, Mrs Overs, so that he wouldn’t end up in a children’s home.

  ‘But however did you get Mrs Overs’ identity card?’ he’d asked, before adding, ‘No, don’t worry, I don’t need to know, I’m just being nosy,’ so she hadn’t had to invent anything to avoid telling him that she’d extracted the forged document from Donald’s father by something really quite similar to blackmail. Some things were best left alone. And now Jepson had said something so kind, so unexpected, that she was momentarily speechless. He was lucky to find you. She’d never thought of it that way round.

  ‘Anything?’ asked the waitress, back yet again.

  ‘I couldn’t,’ said Vee.

  There was a pause.

  ‘We’re not a waiting room,’ said the woman, acidly.

  ‘I’ll have fruit loaf and another cocoa,’ said Jepson, who seemed to have hollow legs.

  ‘Just warning you, we close at six.’

  ‘I’ve had a thought,’ said Jepson, as the waitress moved away again. ‘I suspect that most blackmailers are cowards. If he were to arrive and find that not only were you accompanied, but that your companion was prepared to vouch for your identity, I should think he’d throw in the towel.’

  ‘You’d do that?’ asked Vee, astonished.

  ‘Vouch for you? Yes, of course.’

  She couldn’t fit the idea into her head: another adult offering to help her out of a hole, gratis.

  ‘Why?’ she asked, before she could stop herself, but Jepson had already stood up, picked up his hat and coat and moved across to her table. He put the hat back on, and then politely lifted it.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Overs. Is this chair free?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, too startled to play-act. ‘But if he comes in, what will you do?’

  ‘I’ll say, “I’m a very old friend of Mrs Overs. I’ve seen the baseless and threatening letter that you wrote to her, and as a journalist I’m keen to hear your side of the story before I go to the police.”’

  ‘You’d really say that?’

  ‘I would.’

  Vee put a hand over her eyes. It took Jepson a moment to understand why, and another for him to locate a handkerchief.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean …’

  ‘I’m all right,’ she said, waving the handkerchief away. She removed the hand from her face and sat upright, blinking rapidly. ‘I’m not us
ed to it … I mean, I’ve always had to work out how to do everything by myself. It’s unexpected. Thank you.’ She said the last words with a nod and a stab at a smile.

  ‘You’re welcome,’ said Jepson.

  For a while, they sat together in silence; for once, Vee didn’t feel the urge to fill it.

  ‘You asked why,’ said Jepson.

  ‘Oh, no, you don’t have to say.’ She was suddenly worried that it was pity, or Moral Duty.

  ‘Teaching Noel has been one of the great pleasures of my life,’ he said. ‘And now that I know his story, I can’t bear to think of what would have happened if you hadn’t chosen to do what you did. But more than that, I’d forgotten what it was like to look forward to coming home after work – to return to somewhere pleasant. So I suppose you could say that this is my thanks. The past year has been …’

  He said something that she couldn’t quite hear.

  ‘It’s been what?’

  ‘Balm,’ he said, looking down.

  ‘One cocoa. We’re out of fruit loaf, but I’ve brought you the end of the jam roll,’ said the waitress, clunking the bowl on the table behind.

  ‘Over here, please,’ said Vee.

  ‘Oh, all change at Crewe, is it?’

  The woman shifted the cup and bowl across. Jepson was still looking at the table-top, running a finger over his moustache.

  Poor chap, thought Vee, surprising herself; her own worries had a tendency to jostle aside sympathy for others.

  ‘My mother was very fond of that Bible verse,’ she said. ‘Still is, I suppose. “Is there no balm in Gilead? Is there no physician?” I always remember sitting in chapel and thinking that Gilead would be a nice name for a boy, but then I ended up calling mine Donald.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It was after a character in a book we read at school. Donald Farfrae.’

  ‘From The Mayor of Casterbridge? You like Hardy?’

  ‘That’s the only one of his I ever read. Nobody was very happy in the end, from what I remember.’

  ‘No – well, I suppose he might have considered that unhappy endings were more true to life. Though, personally, I prefer Dickens, where everything turns out well.’ He smiled at her, rather shyly, and Vee felt suddenly very flustered.

  ‘We’ll miss supper,’ she said, looking at the café clock. ‘I don’t know what excuse I’ll give to Noel. He’s been out of sorts since Christmas, I can’t do anything right. He didn’t take to Mario, of course – and I know I scared him when I couldn’t get back from Brighton. I can’t talk to him as well as I used to. Do you think it’s his age?’ And she thought of her son, Donald, who had walked out of earshot somewhere on the road between jolly boy and silent adult.

  ‘I expect his age is a good part of it,’ said Jepson. He ate the jam roll neatly and at speed, but pulled a face after sipping the cocoa.

  ‘We’re closing,’ announced the man behind the counter.

  ‘It’s on me,’ said Jepson, taking his wallet from his pocket. ‘Really,’ he added, firmly.

  They stood for a few minutes in the street outside, the pavements empty, the other shops already locked and shuttered. Someone was singing ‘Roll Out the Barrel’ in the pub on the corner – a slow and phlegmy rendition that made Vee want to clear her throat.

  ‘Would you like to wait a little longer?’ asked Jepson.

  ‘Do you think I should?’

  ‘No. I imagine that he lost his nerve and decided not to go through with it.’

  ‘But what if he sends another letter?’

  ‘Then I’ll come with you to meet him and we’ll send him packing.’

  ‘But what if—?’

  The pavement began to vibrate, and they both turned to see a bulky vehicle moving along the street towards them, the dim blue bulb of the streetlight revealing a crane jib affixed to the flatbed of a lorry. It juddered past just as an ambulance bell became audible, heading west.

  Vee met Jepson’s eye. ‘I think we should go home,’ she said. ‘“Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.”’

  ‘I think you’re right.’

  It wasn’t until they boarded the bus back to Hampstead that she saw he was looking faintly amused.

  ‘What’s so funny?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he said, waiting until she was seated before sitting down himself. ‘It’s just …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You and Noel. Always quoting.’

  ‘Oh.’ She found herself smiling. It wasn’t the end to the day that she’d expected.

  The elderly woman who answered the door of the last house on Robin Street was wearing a rather elegant turban with matching dressing-gown, and the expression of someone dragged from a dinner party.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Miss Newton?’ asked Winnie.

  ‘That is my name.’

  ‘We’re just checking every damaged house to make sure there are no undeclared casualties. You live here with your sister?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And neither of you are injured or shocked?’

  ‘No. Is that all you require? Only we have spent the entire evening sweeping up glass and plaster, and I’m rather fatigued, not to mention more than a little surprised that your call has taken place so many hours after the rocket fell.’

  ‘We’ve been busy, I’m afraid. Is there anyone else staying at the house?’

  ‘Why would there be anyone else staying in our house? What on earth are you implying?’

  ‘I’m not implying anything.’ Winnie walked back down the path and paused to chalk ‘CDS’ on the gate-post.

  ‘Whatever are you doing to my wall?’ asked Miss Newton.

  ‘It means I’ve checked the house and you won’t be disturbed again. Council Repairs will be around in the morning.’

  ‘Wash that off immediately!’

  Winnie ignored her and turned the corner into Swift Road, thinking of Smiler’s usual adage when faced with public recalcitrance – ‘Anyone who expects gratitude’s a mug’ – and then thinking of Smiler, and walking faster.

  ‘I’m going back,’ she called to Padmore, a Post 8 warden who was working his way down the houses. ‘It’s just Walnut Avenue after this. You OK to do it?’

  ‘What about Falcon Road?’

  ‘It’s been empty since the last rocket. Declared unsafe.’

  Back at the incident, a crane had arrived at the far end of the flooded crater, and was attempting to lift whatever it was that had fractured the water main, while in the house next to the Incident Post, the WVS had set up an inquiry point. A stream of shift workers, returning from their jobs to find their homes empty or flattened, were queuing down the path. A frail-looking chap clutched Winnie’s arm as she passed. ‘I’m looking for my wife,’ he said. ‘Number 2 Archer Street. There’s no one digging there. Why isn’t there anyone digging there?’

  ‘Are you Mr Curry?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Your wife was out shopping. She’s safe and she’s gone to your daughter’s.’ He started crying immediately, and apologized, groping for his handkerchief, thanking her with an attempted doff of the hat, managing half a smile as he wiped his eyes.

  ‘I’m glad to do it,’ said Winnie.

  Constable Orr was standing beside the mobile canteen, eating a Lyons pie. ‘It said “plum” on the carton,’ he said, his mouth full, ‘and “blackcurrant” on the wrapper, and now it turns out it’s apple. Here, have you been into the pub just now?’

  ‘Not for an hour.’

  ‘They’ve heard tapping.’

  Winnie arrived there breathless, and could sense immediately the change in atmosphere. The pace was no longer measured but rapid; the squad had formed a chain, passing baskets of rubble out through to the street from a wide-mouthed tunnel in which two men were working; she caught only occasional glimpses of their hands as they passed the baskets upward, their skin covered in a thick paste of grit. She edged around the perimeter until she could see into the hole. It sloped down at
a shallow angle, and at the bottom was what looked like part of a solid surface; not floorboards, but something seamless.

  ‘Warden? Could you come over here a moment?’

  It was the leader of the brigade, Hubbard, a heavy-set man, his face striped with sweat. Winnie followed him to a smaller excavation on the other side of the pub. ‘We thought we heard something earlier,’ said Hubbard, ‘so we sank a shaft, but the noise stopped. We’ve just found him – don’t know if he’s one of yours.’

  Winnie crouched beside the hole, and Hubbard shone his torch down and the first thing she saw was a grey hand, and her eyes followed the arm down to the shoulder. The person was lying at an angle, so that the top of his head was still buried, but she could see the lower half of the face, as grey as the hand, the mouth slightly open, a set of false teeth protruding clownishly in the awful indignity of death.

  ‘Oh,’ she said, and the back of her neck felt sluiced with ice. ‘Oh. It’s Basset. Arthur Basset.’ Who’d said little, who’d loved his wife, who’d never failed his colleagues. ‘Oh, damn it all.’ She straightened up. ‘Damn it all.’ And there was nothing more she could do for him, except determine to tell Min Basset herself; she nodded at Hubbard, and went back across the rubble to the wider dig. Nothing appeared to have changed there, and after a minute or two she left the pub again and returned to the Incident Post, where she added Basset’s name to the list of the dead, and the night jerked onward, one decision after another, a running report to write, her hand cramping around the pencil, the mortuary van arriving, a second crane getting stuck at the corner of Longford Row, a missing child, subsequently found asleep under a chair in the rest centre, the sudden realization at 4 a.m. that if she didn’t have something to eat, she might keel over, and then there was a streak of grey in the sky and she was summoned again to the Fox and Grapes.

  The excavation was as wide as a motor-car, now, and almost as deep, and at the bottom, surrounded by rescue workers, was an object like a long, shallow wooden tent. She stared at it, saw a pump handle sticking out of one side, and realized that she was looking at the bar, knocked horizontal so that underneath it was a potential space: a life-saver. Two jacks had been inserted under one side and were being slowly cranked up.