Blasted Things Page 11

‘Oh heavens, the daffodil is wrong!’ Harri laughed. ‘We’ll have to wait for buttercups, darling, and try again. So, who is it, Clem? Anyone I know?’

  ‘Red Cross, we were overseas together.’

  ‘Golly. Bring her back for tea? Oh, do!’

  ‘Best not.’ Clem turned to watch a barge scythe through the water, its wake surging against the bank. ‘She’s rather sensitive about children,’ she added. ‘Lost one when her husband bought it. The shock . . .’ Clem’s hand went to her own belly. Why say that, why that?

  ‘I suppose we would rather rub her nose in it with this brood!’

  ‘Mummy, come see the baby ducks.’ Phyllis tugged her mother’s hand.

  ‘They’re moorhens, darling.’ Harri allowed herself to be pulled away. Mildred was holding the back of Claris’s coat as she hurled crusts into the water and Edgar strained against his harness to see.

  ‘What’s her name?’ Harri asked.

  Clem watched the minute dusty creatures bobbing on the current, dipping and disappearing only to bob up elsewhere. ‘Look, Harri,’ she said, ‘the idiotic thing is, I haven’t mentioned it to Dennis.’ She brought her eyes, flinchingly, to meet Harri’s. ‘You know how he hates me to “live in the past”? It’s all best foot forward and so on.’

  Harri’s expression was dubious. ‘So, I’m your alibi?’

  ‘It’s not like that!’ Clem blurted an unconvincing laugh. ‘Just, well, you know what a fusspot he is. He worries about me.’ The mother moorhen swam away now, her flotilla of weightless chicks fanning out behind her. ‘But I am better. Truly. And the more people trust that I am better, the better I will be. Please.’ She turned and caught Harri’s arm. ‘He made enough of a song and dance last week about Gwen coming to tea.’

  ‘Did Gwen come? I adore Gwen.’

  ‘You hardly know her!’

  ‘I’d like to.’

  Clem was momentarily confused – Harri and Gwen existed in such separate compartments of her head.

  ‘Look, ma’am,’ called Mildred, ‘a heron.’ They all watched the great scruffy thing haul itself into the air and flap away across the river.

  ‘And after all, it’s nothing,’ Clem said, sounding rather piteous even to her own ears. ‘A cup of tea with a friend. For old times’ sake. It’s not worth the fuss. I know it seems queer. But, please, Harri?’

  ‘Has this mysterious person got a name?’

  ‘Aida.’ The name slid unbidden from Clem’s mouth.

  ‘Ha! Quaint. Like the opera?’

  And Clem had bolted.

  Assignation, assignation, assignation . . . how hot her feet, her head; hands moist inside her gloves. No breeze here in the streets leading upwards into Seckford. Oh, why say Aida?

  It’s a proper scorcher all right. Vince roars along the lanes, verges all frothed up with hogweed, and putters down into town. Riding past a girl with a white parasol brings to mind a butterfly, dainty and crushable – like Mrs Married herself. She’s a different breed from his Doll, who’s all fat and blood and hair and heat – and that’s what you want, something to get hold of, to bury yourself in, to feel at home with, but she can get on your wick all the same.

  Wasn’t easy to get out of a Saturday afternoon. ‘You don’t do much for your keep,’ she said, ‘you could at least stop in while I take Kenny to his party.’ He’d had to bite his tongue at that; but after all she wasn’t to know what he had up his sleeve. Wait till she clocks him up that ladder, paintbrush in hand!

  She’s been nagging on about work, halfway to a wife already! ‘Get yourself down that Labour Exchange, then you can start paying rent.’ The cheek of it! All the graft he does for her, behind the bar of an evening, changing the kegs. He gave Kenny his tea last night, boiled him an egg, even did him some bloody conjuring tricks – vanishing penny, floating handkerchief, what have you.

  And to get back on the right side of her this afternoon, he’s got himself lumbered with fetching Kenny from his party though it means he’ll be pushed for time.

  There’s sudden quiet when the motor stops, then a bird cheeping. Takes off his helmet and goggles – with them on, his face looks normal, you’d never tell. He pats the warm and shiny Norton, beautiful girl she is, good as gold, good as new. Straddling her, feeling that engine rev between his legs, feeling the speed of the world rush by, is when he feels like a proper man again, when he feels complete.

  He puts on his hat and pulls down the brim. No one about so he can adjust the arms of his specs, get his face straight. Hot as summer and a stink coming off the river. Christ, he’s sweltering in his best bib and tucker. The coat someone left in the pub and it’s a good ’un – must have cost a fiver at least, grey stuff, fits like a glove, could have been made for him. Hat tilted over his tin eye, glint of gold spectacle rim, you’d take him for a gent all right.

  Nearly there, and will he be waiting? What’s the time? Damn Dennis and his dallying; she almost laughed out loud at the ridiculous alliteration. Damn Dennis and his dallying, he will keep shilly-shallying. So hot she could melt, ridiculously hot for spring. Aida, though, of all the names in the world, why that? Now Harri was bound to ask about the meeting and force Clem to hear that hurting name. Sun sharp on the windowpanes and the remnants of puddles stung her eyes.

  Now the town: past the bank, the post office – after all that she was on time – turn left at the florist – blooms craning from galvanised buckets, daffodils, tulips, irises, her favourite flowers. Dennis always gave her irises for her birthday, but don’t think about him. There’s absolutely nothing irregular. Not Aida. No, Harri simply misheard; not Aida, but Ida – no, Ada. Of course! A commonplace, much more likely name.

  She turned the corner and there it was, the words stencilled in gilt on the window: The Copper Kettle, Quality Bakery and Tea Room. A surging in her chest now, a slowing of her feet, the brass handle hot, the door opening with a startling ping. Her eyes flicked round the room; he had not yet arrived. Two tables remained free, one in the window, one further back where it was dim. When a small dumpling of a waitress approached, Clem declined the window, asked to be seated in the back. Cooler.

  ‘Most of our ladies like to be sat with a view,’ the girl said pertly, ‘but you know best, I’m sure.’

  ‘Tea only,’ Clem said, waving away the menu. ‘Darjeeling. And two cups, please, I’m expecting a friend.’

  The tablecloth was a vivid shade of pink, a shiny stuff she hadn’t seen before; the table wobbled on the uneven floor. She sat facing the door. Of course, he might not recognise her; it had been such a short visit, and there was his concussion. But she would recognise him, no question of that. Oh, she was quite damp with perspiration. She removed her gloves, surreptitiously ran a finger under the brim of her hat, wiped it on her skirt.

  The tea arrived in a pink pot, which tried to match the cloth. The jug and sugar bowl were black. Clem picked up the sugar tongs, grasped a cube, dropped it, picked it up, dropped it. She did this three times between each look towards the door. Soon the cube began to erode, its corners softening. Each time the door opened, the ping tore right through her. The window table was taken now, two women with great wide hats, blocking the view.

  And then a stooping little person came in – brown coat, brown hat, brown wicker basket. She peered round the teashop, waited by the door for a few moments and then, appearing let down, left. She looked like an Ada, Clem thought, feeling vaguely soothed; let’s call her Ada. Now it was the truth that she’d seen Ada.

  She set the teacups on their saucers, poured milk into both. Through the kitchen door came the soapy smell of washing-up. What if he didn’t come? Maybe that would be best, after all. One could simply send him the money. Pick up the sugar with the tongs and drop it. Pick up and drop, pick up and drop, pick up and drop.

  He follows an old biddy with an arse like a tank through the door; can’t see Mrs M. at first then clocks blue hat, pale face, down in the mouth. Gawd almighty, talk about droopy drawers. He straightens up, dign
ified as befits the officer class. And after all that is what he earned the right to be. The thought sparks a filament of anger through his veins. Sir Mostyn, Sir fucking Mostyn. He grinds his teeth, swallows hard, readies himself to speak with Mostyn’s plummy voice.

  ‘Devil of a job getting away,’ he says, sitting down opposite her. She looks straight at him, eyes the colour of . . . what? Pale, like something breakable. Pretty, actually, you have to give her that, but in that thin, intense way that sets your teeth on edge.

  ‘May I?’ She lifts the pot.

  He removes his coat, making sure to flash the deep blue silky lining. ‘Fine day, what?’ He estimates half an hour of chit-chat, cash in his pocket and then another ten minutes or so – can’t grab and run. He quails when he notices the girl approaching them. It’s Dora, forgot she worked here, little piece he had a dalliance with; she’ll keep her mouth shut if she knows what’s good for her.

  She takes his hat and coat to hang them up and returns with a smile on her face. ‘Would the gentleman like a cake?’

  Poker-faced, he orders an almond tart; Dora looks about to detonate with glee.

  ‘She seems rather familiar,’ says Mrs M.

  ‘Her pa’s an old chum.’

  She looks around her, lifts the sugar bowl as if amused. ‘Trying frightfully hard to be modern, isn’t it?’

  What’s she on about? He catches himself frowning and stops. ‘This is most awfully sporting of you,’ he says, striking, he thinks, just the right note.

  ‘It’s you doing me the favour,’ she says. ‘I’ll feel so much better, you see.’

  ‘Well, as I say, I’m very grateful.’ His fingers are twitching. Hand it over then! But of course there must be more small talk, of the weather and what not, and he can spin that out till the cows come home if necessary. But she seems to have run out of things to say. He watches her wriggle, fidget with the sugar tongs.

  A memory comes: Dad on his stool by the riverbank, twitching his fishing rod. ‘Patience, lad, you have to have patience. You just line up things right and wait, and the blighter’ll catch himself.’ A grey squirm of maggots in a tobacco tin; a wriggle on his old man’s hard brown palm.

  The almond tart arrived, glacé cherry like a bubble of blood on its white skin. Stop it. Clem watched him cut the pastry with a fork and take a hefty mouthful.

  ‘I do feel responsible, wandering about on the road like some kind of . . . twerp.’ She laughed weakly.

  ‘You don’t strike me as a twerp.’ He had a touching way of pushing back his hair, allowing his hand to hover, as if to shadow the prosthesis.

  There followed a silence. Clem could not think of a single word to say. Enjoying the remainder of his pastry, he seemed quite relaxed. The wobbling of the table was getting on her nerves. Flakes of almond like snipped fingernails scattered on the cloth around his plate.

  ‘I suppose you don’t live locally, given the address?’ she said idiotically. Oh, this was torture. Suddenly she was impatient for it to be over – after all what had she expected?

  ‘It’s a place to rest my head for the time being.’ He bit into the tart and the cherry disappeared. ‘You a native of Seckford?’

  ‘Not a native,’ she said. ‘My husband’s home. But not far, Felixstowe. I moved here when—’

  ‘Oh yes, you’re married. I remember you mentioning that you were married.’

  She flushed under this teasing and watched his lazy smile. From the flange of each nostril, a deep groove ran down to below the corners of his lips, scored longer and deeper on one side. His skin was freshly shaved, with a tiny patch of fair bristle missed on his jaw.

  Flipping open a leather case, he extracted a cigarette. ‘You?’

  ‘Thank you.’ She had no wish to smoke, but it was something to do, better than this neurotic destruction of cubed sugar. She took her jade holder from her bag and leant forward as he lit the cigarette. As her lips touched the cool stone, she recalled Powell lighting her a Lucky Strike: the intimacy of putting her lips to the paper where his had been, the tobacco taste of his kisses, his Canadian voice, deep brown, like tobacco itself. The nicotine fizzed through her blood. Yes, there really was something familiar in the shape of Mr Fortune’s face; it wasn’t just her fancy. And oh . . . the light in his fake eye, silvery behind its lens – she caught her breath at the queer notion that Powell was looking out at her through Mr Fortune’s painted eye.

  *

  She puts her hand into her bag. That’s where it is; she’s getting it out. He keeps his gaze on her face though. A white oval, those eyes – ice on a puddle, that’s it! He used to love stamping on frozen puddles, cracking them to smithereens. Her hand stays in her bag. Bring it out, bring it out. He’s getting the jitters now, the start of a headache, warning specks at the edge of his vision. From her bag she draws something – a handkerchief. A bloody handkerchief!

  She smokes nervously. Her hands white and smooth as a child’s make him think of Doll’s paws, all rough and veined. The wedding ring’s gold, the engagement ring sparkles: diamonds and sapphires, worth a bob or two. Even her skin looks top notch.

  He asks about children, surprised she’s got one, looks too delicate to push out a sprog. He sneaks a look at his watch. Must get going; Doll’ll have his guts for garters if he’s late for Kenny.

  ‘Oh, Dennis is alive and well!’ she says when he asks about her hubby’s war. She tells him that she was at the Front, a VAD. Well, surprising as that is, it does make sense; plenty of posh girls out there, do-gooders getting under the real nurses’ feet. At least that’s what that nice sister in Calais let on.

  ‘Do you have family?’ she asks.

  He shakes his head. ‘Wife couldn’t cope with this.’ He taps his face.

  They smoke their cigarettes and talk, but his jitters are coming back, that warning tremble in his eyelid. He’s tired, tired of the pose, of fucking Mostyn’s voice, needs a proper drink.

  ‘What ho,’ he says, glancing meaningfully at his watch.

  ‘Of course.’ At long bleeding last she removes an envelope from her bag. He slips it inside his jacket; that’s that then, done and dusted.

  ‘I wish you luck, Mr Fortune.’ She removes the end of her cigarette, replaces the green holder in her bag.

  ‘Don’t believe in it myself,’ he says. ‘You can’t go trusting in luck. You have to make your own.’

  ‘Hmm,’ she says. ‘But some people do seem luckier than others, don’t they?’ And then she adds, ‘And with a name like yours too!’

  He manages a smile; leg jumping under the table. Come on, come on! Christ, the way she’s looking at him!

  ‘I wonder if I might not have nursed you?’ she comes out with. ‘You seem most terribly familiar, it’s almost as if . . . forgive me if this sounds forward, but as if I know you.’

  ‘Absolutely not,’ he goes, smooth as bloody butter. ‘I could never have forgotten a face like yours.’

  Miscalculation? Looks like she’s about to slap him for a second, but no . . . her eyes widen and she leans forward as if she’s seeing something in him. Christ, it makes his skin creep the way she’s staring now – but he senses a chance here. Don’t go looking a gift horse in the mouth, Vincey boy.

  Worth a punt at least. ‘Mrs Everett,’ he says, ‘might we meet again?’

  A door slammed in her breast, her body stiffened. Whoever did he think he was? And what did he think she was? This was, after all, just what you’d expect from someone of his ilk. Abruptly, she stood. ‘I really don’t think that will be necessary, do you?’

  His chair grated as he stood too.

  ‘I’m relieved to have recompensed you. Goodbye, Mr Fortune.’

  She fled the café, head down – flash of flowers, paving stones, puddles bright with sky, horse droppings. Oh, compose yourself, do, woman! Running harum-scarum through the town, gloves off! Compose yourself. Entering a churchyard, she found a bench in the deep shade of a yew, and there she sat, dabbing her face, her eyes, with her
handkerchief. Tears! Oh, what was the matter with her?

  Dennis maintained that she was still delicate, that she must take care of her nerves. Nerves: a tangle of wires fizzing and snarling and sparking. Breathe. Smooth, smooth, soothe, soothe. Once her hectic heart began to slow, she let her head hang back, gazed up into the prickity branches of the yew, the ancient wood, the smell so deeply green. A tree hundreds of years old perhaps; here before the war, here after; unmoved, calm, oblivious. And the thrush singing high in its branches knew nothing – only the moment, only the sunshine, only its song.

  He dons the helmet and the goggles, revs the engine. He’ll feel better for a ride. A sudden laugh yelps out of him as the wind hits his face – pushed it too far that time, Vincey. Priceless! You’d think he’d goosed her, the way she fled, leaving that little Dora in stitches.

  Can’t find the house, parks miles away, but still gets there in the nick of time, kiddies all spilling out. Kenny gives him a filthy look. ‘Where’s Mum?’ he says. ‘She never said you were coming for me.’

  ‘Thought you’d like a ride on the pillion.’

  Kenny’s pleased as punch but won’t let on. You can see him looking around, hoping his pals might see. ‘Where is it, then?’

  ‘Down the street.’

  The kid slumps with disappointment. He’s nine, a knock-kneed, calf-licked little brat who’s not really taken to Vince, not yet, despite the conjuring tricks. Give him time though; once he sees Vince as a father figure and, you never know, he and Doll might have another. Yes, he likes that idea, his kid planted up in Doll’s big warm belly. That’d seal the deal all right.

  ‘Good party?’ Vince says.

  ‘All right.’ Kenny picks up a stick and clatters it along the iron palings of a fence.

  ‘Cling tight,’ Vince tells him once they’re on the bike. Perhaps he ought to get the lad a helmet if this is going to be a habit. He’s only once given Doll a ride, her soft bulk pressed against his back, shrieking in his ear – scared the flipping life out of her!

  ‘You drive slowly,’ she said to Vince this afternoon. ‘You harm a hair on his head and you’ll have me to answer to.’