Blasted Things Page 12

  ‘I’ll treat him like bone china,’ he promised. And true to his word he drives at a snail’s pace, so that the boy shouts, ‘Faster, faster.’ They roll up at the Wild Man safe and sound. A car’s still parked out the front, he notices, though it’s long gone closing. He rides round the back and they enter through the dim kitchen where all’s quiet.

  ‘Mum,’ Kenny shouts, ‘I’m back.’

  Doll’s probably upstairs, taking the weight off or having a bath. Kenny hammers up there. Not a word of thanks; he’ll have to teach that boy some manners. Doll spoils him, lets him wind her round his little finger. Yes, a man’s influence definitely needed here.

  He takes out the envelope and counts the money – lovely fresh notes – a bit more than he asked for too. He tucks it into his wallet and, whistling, goes through to the bar for a stiffener.

  As he enters he hears Doll’s laugh and there she is, changed into a new blouse, sitting opposite someone, clouds of smoke and tumblers of gin on the table.

  ‘What ho,’ he says.

  ‘Talk of the devil.’ Doll looks up at him. ‘Where’s Kenny?’

  ‘Gone up.’

  ‘Well, that was good of you,’ she says. ‘Now, where’s my manners! Teddy, this is Vince, Mr Fortune. He lodges here’ – she gives Vince a warning look – ‘in a manner of speaking. Vince, this is Ted, Edward Chamberlain, an old friend of Dick’s.’

  Mr Chamberlain, a hulk of a man, head like a great moustachioed spud, doesn’t shift himself, but reaches out his hand.

  ‘Any friend of Doll’s,’ says Vince, shaking it.

  ‘And I bet she’s a great many friends, eh? What?’ says Ted.

  ‘Now then!’ Doll nudges his arm. She has that soft, blurred look from one too many in the afternoon; she’ll suffer for it tonight and who’ll be the one to have to listen to her moaning then? The claws of his headache tighten and he stretches his neck this way and that.

  ‘Copped it, eh? Who were you with?’ Ted indicates his face.

  ‘First Suffolk Yeomanry. Sergeant.’

  ‘Greenwich Light Infantry. Captain. Pull up a pew, Vince. Can I call you Vince?’

  Vince nods. ‘Don’t mind if I do. I’ll fetch myself a drink. Anyone else?’ Gives him satisfaction this, acting the host.

  ‘Not for me.’ Doll gives him a look. ‘And no war talk, please.’

  ‘Sorry, Doll,’ says Ted and touches her arm. She’s getting that misty look that comes over her when she remembers her old man.

  ‘Kenny enjoyed the ride home,’ Vince says, as he refills Ted’s glass and helps himself to a double as well as a pint while he’s at it. ‘Clinging like a limpet. We should get him a helmet if I’m to be ferrying him about.’

  ‘We’ll have to see about that.’ Doll frowns at his two drinks.

  ‘Motorcyclist, are you? What have you got?’ Ted asks.

  Vince launches into detail about the Norton but Doll interrupts: ‘Remember you’ve still got to change them kegs, Vince, before opening.’

  ‘I haven’t forgotten.’ Vince rolls his eyes at Ted. Women!

  Ted grins, pipe stem clenched between his teeth, big damp moustache. ‘What’s your line now?’ he asks.

  Vince takes a swallow of Scotch, lights a cheroot. ‘Considering my options. Helping Doll out in the meantime. You?’

  ‘Motor trade,’ says Ted.

  ‘Ted’s got a lovely motor, and tomorrow he’s taking me and Kenny out for a drive,’ says Doll. ‘You won’t mind closing up for me after dinnertime, will you?’

  ‘Not a bit.’ Vince’s fingers crush his cheroot. ‘Just passing through?’ he asks.

  ‘Firm’s setting up a branch in Ipswich,’ Ted says. ‘So I reckon you can count me as a new regular.’ He winks at Doll.

  ‘Bit far to come for a regular,’ says Vince.

  ‘Well, I dare say he’ll pop in now and then,’ Doll says, and the way she beams at Ted, it turns Vince’s stomach.

  17

  The Wild Man,

  Gipswick Road

  Dear Mrs Everett,

  I hope this letter finds you well.

  I am writing to thank you for payment of funds. My motorcycle is fixed now thanks to you. Most gratefully received.

  Also sorry for causing you offence. When I suggested we meet again I wasn’t meaning anything wrong by it, only that you might like to talk about your time at the Front. But why should you? Only I got a feeling. I do get feelings, but this time was a mistake and sorry to be so forward and put you out.

  I also want to ask you something else. I reckon this letter will be on the fire by now at any rate, so I will dare. You see, there has been a hitch with my compensation as well as some other funds I’m due and so I find myself short, just temporary. I wonder if you might be able to lend me £10, which I will repay at 5% interest when my boat comes in, so to speak.

  I do not expect you’re still reading and won’t contact you again unless you find it in the goodness of your heart to help. You did strike me as the kind-hearted sort. If so, you can write to me at the above address as before.

  Yours sincerely,

  Vincent Fortune, Esq.

  The cheek of the fellow! Yes, it should certainly go straight into the fire and let that be an end to it. But curiously, she found herself smiling. ‘Esq.’ – really, that was pushing it! She looked at the fire. Poor soul – to be reduced to cadging from a stranger. And what an utter ninny she’d made of herself, fleeing like that! She folded the letter and tucked it back into its flimsy envelope. His first was still in her sewing box under the spools of thread. This one might just as well join it.

  She took up her sketchbook and gazed at her attempt to draw him from memory. All wrong, she hadn’t captured his essence. How to depict the contrast between the living skin and the simulacrum? An idea came, audacious enough to send a thrill through her veins. Might she suggest that he sit for her? She could offer to pay him. Yes. But dare she ask? Of course, Dennis would have a conniption if he knew. And Mr Fortune himself might well be offended; presumably he liked to think he passed for normal. And why not? He was normal. Damaged, yes, but half the population of Europe was damaged in one way or another. It was normal to be damaged these days, visibly or not. Except, of course, for Dennis.

  Who chose that moment to bluster cheerfully into the drawing room. She slid the sketchbook beneath a pattern book, began to flip the pages.

  ‘Darling girl.’ He bent to kiss her hair. ‘What are you scheming?’

  She looked down at the page. ‘A fancy tray cloth perhaps,’ she said dryly. ‘They always come in handy.’

  ‘Quite. Good for you. Nice to see you occupied. I’ve asked Mrs Hale to bring us coffee together. Oddly slow surgery today, so I’ve got ten minutes.’

  ‘How nice.’

  ‘Oh, I expect a tidal wave presently.’ He stretched and yawned sonorously. ‘By the way, you haven’t said much about Harri? The visit’s clearly done you a power of good.’

  Clem flicked through the pages: napkins, table cloths, samplers, antimacassars.

  ‘Did you get anywhere with the question of her move back here?’

  ‘But you argue all the time!’

  He was looking in the mantel mirror now, pinching the waxed ends of his moustache. ‘If only she wasn’t so beastly stubborn.’

  ‘It takes two, Dennis.’

  ‘She’s always been contrary. “Mary, Mary, quite contrary,” Mother used to say.’

  ‘Well, I couldn’t stick living in the middle of a cat-and-dog fight.’

  He turned from the mirror, went to the window. ‘Oh Lord, here comes Mr Jones and his blasted “rhumaticks”.’ He sighed. ‘It wouldn’t be for ever, sugar plum. She’s bound to remarry. Though she’ll drive them away with that preposterous Bohemian pose she’s striking in that hovel.’ He hooted. ‘Painted stools – I ask you!’

  ‘I think it rather a sweet cottage. Cosy.’

  ‘And as for those wretched Burts.’

  ‘They are her in-laws
.’

  Harrumphing, he flung himself down on the sofa. From below came the sound of the waiting-room door. ‘Oh, I’m sure they’re good people, salt of the earth and so on, but it’d be a much better start for the girls growing up here.’

  Pen wipers, needle books, jewellery cases, handkerchiefs. Clem put down the patterns, and the concealed sketchbook slid out. Dennis reached for it but she snatched it up first.

  ‘Been sketching?’

  She pinched the book tight shut.

  ‘May I see?’

  ‘I’d rather wait till I had something worth showing.’

  He shrugged. ‘Well, as long as you stick to cheery things. Flowers and what not. No more ugliness, eh? I take it you burned those horrid old war sketches?’ He cracked his knuckles. ‘And after all, Stanley’s dead now, no use beating about the bush. She’s one of us again.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Clem said.

  Mrs Hale came in with the coffee tray. ‘Beef olives for luncheon, doctor?’ she said.

  ‘Scrumptious,’ said Dennis.

  ‘Don’t you find beef a bit heavy at lunchtime?’ Clem said, when the door had closed.

  ‘Not after a morning’s work. You should do more, get out and about, build up your appetite.’ He stood to pour the coffee.

  ‘That’s exactly what I intend,’ Clem said.

  Dennis beamed.

  ‘But, darling,’ Clem dared, ‘organise some pocket money for me, do. I don’t like to have to ask every time I need a shilling or two . . . Oh, Eddie said “cat” yesterday,’ she added swiftly, before his expression could sour. ‘At his age! Most distinctly. Harri thinks him most awfully advanced.’

  ‘Well, with parents like us what do you expect!’ He lavished cream into the cups. ‘I wonder . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Whether he should prefer a brother or a sister?’

  Her womb contracted sharply.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘No’ – he smiled – ‘not absolutely quite yet.’

  The coffee was far too creamy; it coated the roof of her mouth. Below them went the door again; any minute he would go.

  ‘The money?’ she said. ‘I know it’s frightful to go on about it but . . .’

  He bit into a buttered half-scone, chewed and swallowed before he spoke. ‘As a matter of fact I have been giving the matter some thought. What about taking back the housekeeping from Mrs Hale? Then you can do the budgeting, cuts of meat and so on.’

  ‘But . . .’ Clem put down her cup. ‘Dennis, really, I’m not the least bit interested in the housekeeping. I just want a little spending money of my own. A little independence. And Mrs Hale manages so well. Mightn’t she be insulted? We don’t want to upset her.’

  He helped himself to another piece of scone.

  ‘Besides,’ Clem teased, ‘you might find yourself living on carrots whenever I fancy a new hat.’

  Dennis laughed and shook a finger at her. ‘So I should starve to keep you in fripperies!’

  ‘Or’ – she dipped her head and peeped up through her lashes – ‘we could leave Mrs Hale in charge, and you simply give me an allowance of my own. Anyway,’ she added, ‘every girl needs a frippery from time to time.’

  He snorted. ‘I’ll mull it over,’ he said. ‘No rush is there? By the way, what did you buy last time?’

  She took a little breath; of course the question was expected. ‘Oh . . . hat, gloves, things for the children – little bits and bobs.’

  ‘Damnably expensive bits and bobs!’

  The surgery door banged.

  Dennis dabbed his mouth on a napkin, stood, checked his moustache before the mirror.

  ‘It’s rather demeaning, darling, to have to account for every penny,’ she said, smiling though her jaw was tight as a trap.

  ‘Doesn’t grow on trees, you know.’

  ‘Oh, honestly, Dennis, what a screaming cliché!’ She nibbled the edge of a scone, picked out a sultana with her nail and squelched it with her teeth. ‘Here’s an idea: I could look for a little job.’

  He gaped at her. ‘You are surely not serious!’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Absolutely not!’ he said. ‘Preposterous. Out of the question. A job!’ He puffed out an angry laugh. ‘You’re surely ribbing?’ Shaking his head, he left the room and soon, floating up from below, came the important, doctory sound of his voice.

  The Beeches,

  Seckford

  Dear Mr Fortune,

  Thank you for your note of 23rd. I must assure you that I am not in the least offended, and indeed it is I who must apologise for the graceless way I ended our meeting. Abruptly, I remembered an appointment and had to dash – frightfully rude of me.

  Perhaps you might allow me to buy you tea as an apology for such disagreeable behaviour? I could meet you at noon on Saturday 7th May, in the same place, if that suits?

  As for your other request, leave the matter with me. I do have sympathy for veterans like yourself who, after such tremendous personal sacrifice for King and Country, find themselves through no fault of their own in financial straits.

  Yours sincerely,

  Mrs Clementine Everett

  The Beeches,

  Seckford

  Dear Father,

  I am ashamed at how long it has been since I have written. Though, if you will forgive my saying so, you haven’t been much better! I do hope you are happy in California – all that sunshine must be good for your health and spirits, I am sure. The weather here has been divine lately, you’d think it summer already, and I have been getting out and about. You’ll be glad to hear that I’m quite recovered. I shall enclose a photograph of your grandson. I do wish you could meet him. He’s the image of Dennis, ‘a little bruiser’ they say, though I don’t know what that means exactly and I’m not sure I like the sound of it!

  Now, I know Mother left me some money in trust until I am 25. Although that is still more than two years hence, it would be useful for me to have a portion of it now, if you think it fitting. There are various things needed such as hats and art supplies, a summer coat, now that I am better, and I prefer not to have to ask Dennis for every penny. Not that he is mean, but it makes one feel so beholden. Since my illness he treats me with kid gloves rather, questions all my decisions and so on, and I have no control over the housekeeping. A little money of my own would make me feel more independent, more like the grown-up woman, indeed wife and mother, that I am.

  Please send my regards to Joan. I do hope she is well.

  Love always,

  Your own daughter,

  Clementine

  18

  HE SETS HIS clock for five a.m., but in the thin grey light of insomnia clicks off the ringer at half past four. Carrying his shoes, he descends the ladder and tiptoes past Doll’s door, pauses to listen for her breath: all quiet. She’s never once let him stop the night in there. Her bed’s soft, deep and musky – she’s not a great one for washing the sheets (not like Ethel who’d whisk them off at the least hint of a whiff). What’s wrong with a bit of a whiff, specially if it’s Doll’s? Going up that ladder to his camp bed after they’ve done the deed makes him feel like a bloody alley cat. Though lately there’s been none of that. What’s up with her when it’s so good and all? She can hardly make out she doesn’t enjoy it. Just wait till she sees what he’s got up his sleeve!

  It’s all planned out, a proper strategy. Monday’s quiet; if they stay shut today they can be open by Tuesday dinner with hardly a dip in the takings. She might have a bit of a go at him – she hates to let her regulars down – but it’ll be well worthwhile. If he sets to, he can get it done in a day, show her what he’s made of. Man at work – oh yes, he likes the ring of that.

  Because the scuttle makes a devil of a din, he kneels to put the coals in the kitchen stove one by one. He sets the kettle on and goes through into the bar, rubbing his hands. First things first, get them curtains down. He fetches the ladder from the cellar, climbs up a
nd unhooks them, sneezing in the avalanche of dust, then takes the paintings and mirrors off the walls. By the time she’s up and about, he’ll have done the back wall so she’ll clock it as soon as she walks in the bar – see what he’s been up to. Glorious sunshine yellow, enough to make your heart sing.

  Then he stands in the kitchen, purposeful, keyed-up, spreading dripping on bread, folding it up and shoving it into his mouth between sips of tea. When he’s done, he opens the drum of Walpamur he sneaked in yesterday. Bought it on tick, money more or less promised. He puts on an old shirt of Doll’s hubby’s, fit only for rags, over his own undershirt. It’s chilly, but he’ll warm up once he gets going. The paint’s thick, separated into layers, and takes a hell of a lot of stirring.

  He hums to himself as he works. Bloody cobwebs in the corners, never noticed, and straight away they get on the brush. Should have washed the walls first, done a bit more prep, but too late now. Here he is making a difference to the place. Making his mark. Like one of them birds that build a fancy nest to attract a mate. Though, fair enough, it is her nest already, but he’s bettering it, bringing it up a notch. Jazzing things up. Bits of web and wing, dust and detritus caught up on the picture rail get in the paint, but you won’t be able to tell. Won’t show when the curtains are back up, the mirrors and pictures rehung.

  Painting over the dark green is harder than he thought and it’ll want another coat. All the more reason to get on: do it fast, a quick first go over, and don’t worry what it looks like. He thinks of a cat he had as a child, the way it would spray piss to mark its territory. No, it’s not like that; he’s not just making his mark, he’s doing a good turn – a nice surprise for old Dolly, still in the Land of Nod up there, bless her heart. Drips run down his wrist and he wipes them on the shirt. It’s not six yet. As a rule she’s not down till half seven. If he can get the first coat done . . . but it’s taking longer than he thought, with the fiddly bits round the windows and the picture rail and the complicated skirting. Really, it all needs doing, but just the walls today, just to get that fresh, spruced-up look, just to see the look on her face. Priceless, that’ll be.