Blasted Things Read online

  20

  STOOLS UP ON the tables, he sweeps the floor, ready for dinnertime opening. Lost custom on Monday and Tuesday: painting took longer than he thought, cost more too, what with the extra paint and that. Money on tap now though, if he plays it right. You have to have a plan. Things don’t just happen willy-nilly. They need helping along. Sergeant V. H. Fortune M.C.: a military man after all; strategy, strategy, all about strategy.

  Still hints of the old paint showing through. Really needs a third coat but Doll put her foot down. Clear up and open up. Slave-driver, that’s what she is. ‘You brought it on yourself,’ she said. ‘If you’d’ve said what you was up to, we could’ve talked it through.’

  The bit by the door’s the worst – a long patch of green, like a stubborn streak of cowshit. He’s gone over and over it but it creeps back when the paint dries. Like the dirty truth behind a lie. If only they could stick something there – a plant, a hatstand or a flaming great statue – but Doll says it would be a hazard near the door.

  Floor swept, he gets the stools down, clatters ashtrays on the tables and the bar, deals out the beermats. She’s upstairs doing her hair; she washed it while he was putting the curtains up last night, took the opportunity what with being closed. What a palaver. Good job she does it so seldom, puts her in a right old tizzy. There’s a smell of burning hair coming down the stairs from her curling iron, and those sharp pins on the carpet up there, you have to mind your footing.

  She will marry him. He will become landlord. Yesterday they had tea together – toad in the hole, gravy and a baked apple – the three of them sat round the kitchen table, just like a family, and later he’d entertained the boy with a few of his tricks. They’re coming back to him now. As a kid he was quite the conjurer: card tricks to amaze, coins produced from ears, a dancing handkerchief. Kenny loved it, and Doll, oh, he could see she was entranced, even though she was trying to stay cross, the way her mouth opened in surprise and her great big warm smile breaking through at last, just like the sun from behind a cloud.

  While Doll chased Kenny up to bed, Vince finished putting the bar back in order, then he poured drinks, insisted she sit down – quite masterful he was – and they’d sat together in the clean and empty paint-smelling bar, sipping gin and lime, and she’d leant forward and squeezed his arm and said, ‘Thank you, dearie, for the thought. Of course, I shall have to have it done over properly one day, but I know you meant well.’

  He said nothing, only fetched them a top-up; it was hardly thanks enough for two days’ grafting dawn to dusk, but it was something. When they were married she’d show a bit more respect. Mind you, he rather likes a woman who wears the trousers now and then – as long as it is only now and then. He thought he was on a promise last night, but when he put his hand on her knee, she got up and stepped away.

  He’d asked her what was up, but she’d gone upstairs to bed without even saying goodnight. Saving herself, he reckons, silly old cow; no need, no need at all. Could’ve done with a comfort too, after seeing Mrs M., all them memories spewing out like rotten mud across the table. He stirred himself up good and proper there. What did he want to go doing that for?

  He passes a cloth over the optics, picks up and inspects a glass. What it will take to marry Doll is simple: money. This is the life he wants – what could be better? He’d be properly set up: his own business, his own family, ready-made. There’s an earwig creeping out from under a jug; he knocks it to the floor and crushes it. There’s Ted to think of, but since he took Doll and Kenny on their picnic the other week, she’s not breathed another word about him. When he asked she only said, ‘We had a nice tea, thank you,’ mouth like a cat’s arse, so he guesses that hurdle’s fallen, but there’ll be more. No time to sit on the fence. Decisive action required pronto: all he needs is the spondulix – and now he has a source.

  After closing, Doll puts her hand on his arm. ‘Vince, can I have a word, dear?’ But she’ll have to wait her turn; he’s been hatching his plan all dinnertime as he pulled pints of mild and bitter and cider, chit-chatted with the regulars.

  ‘Can it wait, Doll?’ he says. ‘Got to see a man about a dog.’

  She gives him a look but, ‘Of course,’ she says, ‘you run along.’ Looking her age today, strained round the eyes. ‘But we shall have to talk later,’ she says, all serious.

  What’s that about? Vince adjusts the goggles, wraps his scarf round his mouth, revs up the Norton. No matter what sort of a funk he’s in, the minute that engine fires up underneath him, he feels better, strong, entire. What’s he done wrong now though? Or maybe, like him, Doll’s thinking it’s time they move things onto a more permanent footing? He’s getting to know her little ways; always so stroppy first thing – you want to steer clear if you can – she gets better and better as the day wears on, till last thing at night she’s in her full glory.

  He drives down into Seckford, the wind in his face, parky for May. She has a way of wrinkling her nose when she’s thinking, quite a rabbit twitch, which he loves, yes, loves, that’s not putting it too strong. Of course there are things you ignore, pretend not to notice, like the soft way she gives into Kenny’s every whim, or doesn’t always empty the chamber pot, or wriggles her little finger in her ear when she’s miles away.

  Through Seckford and out along the Malton Road, he slows down. This is the vicinity. Surveillance, that’s the key. Get a good look, see what he’s dealing with here. The Beeches, named for the trees, bloody great things everywhere. He parks the motorcycle on the verge opposite and removes his helmet and goggles, taking in the size of the place. There are two gateways flanked by trees, stone balls on the gateposts, greened over with moss. There’s a beech hedge between the gates, both of which are open so you could drive in one, out the other. Grand stone steps lead up to the front door and smaller ones down to – he puts on his hat before he risks crunching over the gravel to have a proper butcher’s – the surgery door.

  Up them steps comes a woman supporting an old bloke, faces white as chalk. Vince goes back to the road, stands so that he can see the comings and goings. The old man’s in a wheelchair now and the woman’s pushing him away; a bloke wheels his bicycle out onto the road, hawks in the gutter, then mounts the bike and clanks off up the road. And then there’s nothing for a while but birds cheeping, the odd car, a pony and trap clopping by.

  Five minutes of so of nothing and he’s starting to twitch, then the door opens again and out comes . . . Must be the doctor himself – dark hair, swarthy type, smart coat, Homburg, doctor’s bag. A geezer in a flat cap follows him and they have a word, then the doctor gets in the Ford, the other bloke cranks it till the engine turns over and the doctor drives out. Beautiful motor it is, shining black with flashing chrome.

  Vince shivers. Cold out here despite the sun, nasty edge to that wind. Shame about last night, Doll going off without a word. It’s not like they haven’t done it before! Tonight, then. It warms him just to think about it; you could lose yourself altogether in that woman, dip your wick and lose your wits. He never knew a woman could go like that and he’s hardly had a sheltered life!

  Remember Ethel though, her dry, tight, pinchy little ways you had to be so grateful for. He’s never gone short, not when he was a salesman on the road, and then at the Front there were girls for sale wherever you went – perk of the job – but you had to be careful what you caught, and once he did catch the clap. Got it sorted out but it taught him a lesson all right. Once he’d become an officer there was not so much of that anyway, you had to set an example. Some of those girls were fun; there was one he got quite sweet on, a little Turk at Gallipoli, a proper dusky maiden, lashes like chimney soot.

  He’s getting fed up with this surveillance. Where’s it getting him? But then the front door opens and out comes a nursemaid and a bigger missus in a pinny; they help each other with a pram down the steps. And then the girl pushes the pram along – bumping over them blasted roots – and he can hear the kid crying. He crosses the r
oad and follows, not too close but close enough to hear her singing away.

  ‘Go to sleep, my baby, close your pretty eyes, angels up above you, peeping at you dearly from the skies.’

  Gives him a pang: was that ever sung to him? Gives him an idea too. He follows her along the road. She turns down a lane where the trees arch over and between the trunks the bluebells spread like a flood, and there’s white stuff too, a whiff of garlic.

  ‘Great big moon is shining, stars begin to peep, time for Master Eddie Everett, to be asleep, time for Eddie boy to be asleep.’

  Seems to have done the trick, the lullaby, no more crying. The girl looks round sharply, sensing him behind her in the lane.

  ‘Excuse me, miss.’ He catches her up. ‘I’m looking for a family called Jefferson.’ Where the hell did that come from? ‘Wonder if you can help?’

  ‘There’s some cottages at the bottom.’ She hasn’t looked up at him. ‘Don’t know who lives there though.’

  Falling into step beside her, Vince peers into the pram at a sleeping child in a white bonnet.

  They walk along in silence for a minute then, ‘I’m his nursemaid,’ she says. ‘First job. Fallen right on my feet.’

  ‘Come up trumps, eh?’ he says.

  ‘He sleeps when he’s meant to, eats when he’s meant to. He’s like blooming clockwork. Not like my little brothers, they was scallywags compared to him. They was all over the shop!’ She gives a fond laugh. ‘Though he was a bit grumpy this afternoon, so we’re having an extra walk.’

  ‘Done the job, hasn’t it?’

  ‘Soon as you get moving it sends him right off. I reckon it’s a tooth.’

  ‘What’s the mother like?’

  The girl hesitates before she says, ‘Nice.’

  ‘Treats you all right, does she?’

  ‘What’s it to you?’

  She speeds up and he keeps pace with her.

  ‘Nice bluebells, aren’t they?’ he says. And after a moment she softens and they walk along, talking about the flowers and the weather, just passing the time of the day.

  Round a bend at the foot of the slope there’s a row of cottages. ‘Try here,’ she says.

  ‘I will, thanks.’

  ‘Well, bye.’ She continues pushing the pram.

  ‘What’s your name if you don’t mind me asking?’ he calls after her.

  She turns, looks him in the face for the first time and does the usual double take. ‘Dinah,’ she says. ‘Dinah Harris.’

  ‘Harris?’ he says and laughs. ‘Well, I’ll be . . . there’s a coincidence. I’m Harris too. Johnny.’

  ‘Really!’ Her face lights up with amazement though it’s not that surprising. If they were both called Fortune, now that’d be something to write home about.

  ‘Think about it,’ he says, ‘When we’re wed you won’t even have to change your name.’

  She giggles nervously.

  ‘Only joking.’ He grins, then hesitates. ‘Look, this is a bit forward, Dinah, but I wonder if I might take you out for tea sometime?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know about that,’ she says. With the toe of her boot she stirs the grass. ‘P’raps, p’raps not.’

  ‘When’s your day off?’

  ‘I get Sunday afternoons.’ She peeps at him again.

  ‘Well’ – he straightens up – ‘I’d better let you get on and see if I can’t find my friend, an old mate from the Front.’

  ‘That where you got this?’ Her hand goes to her eye.

  He nods, gives a brave smile.

  ‘Call on Sunday at noon,’ she says. ‘We could go for a stroll, p’raps?’

  ‘That time’s not so good for me,’ he says. Doll’d have his guts for garters if he went AWOL of a Sunday dinnertime! ‘Three o’clock?’

  Dinah nods, smiles up at him. She’s nothing but a skinny little kid, sweet though. She walks on with the pram, and as soon as she’s out of sight he turns back to fetch his bike.

  21

  The Wild Man,

  Gipswick Road

  Dear Mrs Everett,

  I am writing to thank you for the money. It was not right the way I took it without the proper thanks and we never discussed terms. As I said, I insist on paying back in full with interest when my boat comes in. If you was able to manage a further loan it would be most gratefully received, just a few extra pounds to tide me over. Flaming cheek of me to ask, you’re most probably thinking, but you have a kind heart and they are few and far between these days.

  I enjoyed our little chat. Did you realise you dropped a glove, which I can give back in person?

  Perhaps you’ll allow me to buy you a drink? Nothing improper intended. I’ll be in the lounge bar of the Crown, as before, at three Friday coming. No offence taken if you’re not there.

  Yours sincerely,

  Vincent Fortune, Esq.

  The roof of the car was up against the rain and the wipers jerked from side to side. Hale was a man of few words but many effortful sounds to do with his digestion and respiration, which were aggravating, but at least didn’t necessitate a reply.

  At first she’d determined to ignore the letter. Enough of the wretched man! Repeatedly she’d crumpled it and then smoothed it out. The loss of a glove was no more than an irritation. She recalled dropping it and his head close to her knees in the dark space beneath the table – perhaps he’d pocketed it deliberately?

  As the car jolted uphill towards town her stomach was tight and her fingers jittery. She would ask him to sit for her, refuse to make it a loan – ‘interest’ indeed! She’d offer him payment instead – an emollient for his pride.

  Inside her bag she felt the envelope which contained the ten-pound note received from Dennis. Of course, there had been a frightful fuss about the money she’d purloined. She’d owned up and, in the bedroom, let him chide her and make love to her. She could get away with murder, she was beginning to realise, if she was willing to pay in that way. All she had to do was make the eager sounds he liked and afterwards lie rumpled and dazed and grateful and then the matter was over. Really, he was easy enough to manage when you got the trick of him.

  Hale dropped her in Church Square and she waited till he’d driven away before she hurried towards the Crown, grateful in the rain for the camouflage of her umbrella.

  The bar was almost empty, and dim; no sunshine came through the stained glass today. The fire burned sluggishly, and the floor was wet with drips and footprints. Mr Fortune was waiting at the bar.

  ‘Mrs Everett.’ He took her hand in his; today her gloves were chamois, punched with holes. ‘Or Clementine if I may? I’ve taken the liberty . . .’ He turned and lifted from the bar a glass of sherry.

  Clem had decided this time to keep a clear head, to request a pot of tea. But still, she accepted the sherry. The audacity of the man! There was the landlady, straightening up behind the bar, a knowing look on her face.

  ‘Shall we?’ Vincent gestured towards the booth.

  ‘I believe you have something for me?’ she said as soon as they were seated.

  With a mysterious smile he held out both hands, swivelled them so that she could see the empty palms, reached over – she quailed as he inserted a finger under the brim of her hat – and produced her glove.

  ‘How!’ The place he’d touched seemed to tingle: what tremendous nerve! The landlady, craning to watch, returned to polishing a glass as she caught Clem’s eye.

  ‘Magic,’ Vincent said. His mobile eyebrow lifted as he grinned.

  ‘You’re a conjurer?’

  Modestly he shook his head. ‘A few parlour tricks, you know. Used to entertain the chaps at the Front in quiet moments.’

  ‘Well, thank you.’ She smoothed the blue glove and tucked it into her bag. ‘They’re particular favourites of mine.’ He looked touchingly pleased with himself. Conjuring in the trenches? Surely not? She noticed his eyes lingering on her bag. Naturally he’d be wondering if there were anything inside for him. The sensible thing would be to ma
ke her offer of employment – artist to model – in a businesslike way. If he declined, then that would be that. She’d go straight home to Dennis and Edgar and never think of him again. No more money nonsense. No more nonsense at all.

  He pulled out his cigarette case. Though she’d vowed neither to drink nor smoke this afternoon, she accepted one. There followed a prolonged silence.

  ‘So,’ he said, at last. ‘Where were we?’

  ‘Thank you for returning my glove, Mr Fortune, but I really can’t stay. I only—’

  ‘Oh, not this again.’ His voice grated.

  She sensed a change, a darkening, even anger, and, alarmed, stubbed out her cigarette and stood. ‘Please allow me past.’ But he sat motionless so that she could not get out of the booth.

  The landlady, arms folded, was staring.

  ‘Please.’

  The insolent way he was regarding her and the feeling of being trapped and watched were making her feel panicky. Not this again, not this. Perspiration rose on her neck; her breath was trapped in her lungs. She tried to push past him, but the floor seemed to lurch. She clutched at the table to steady herself.

  ‘Whatever’s up with you?’ he said. ‘Sit down.’

  ‘Would she like to lie down?’ a voice said.

  Oh, that wretched landlady. ‘If there were somewhere, just for a moment.’ Clem’s voice was muffled even to her own ears. Had she spoken at all? She needed home, she needed quiet. Above all, she needed to be alone. If only she could breathe. It was the sort of panic she’d had before though not for months. She’d thought she was over it, the hectic beating in chest and neck like a flock of trapped birds, a throbbing in her limbs as if she might burst. Her nerves, her nerves, still delicate – Dennis, dear Dennis, quite right – frizzling and sparkling like electrical wires.

  ‘Poor thing,’ the landlady said. Her mouth was like a dark red moth squashed against her powdery face. ‘Ooh, doesn’t she look pale? Let’s get you lying down, shall we, Mrs—? Shall I fetch a doctor?’