Avalanche of Daisies (18 page)

‘No Spitfire yet?' he asked, trying to sound nonchalant. ‘Hain't she comin' tonight?'

Their reaction was alarming. Instead of giggling and bridling at him the way he'd expected, they dropped
their eyes and looked embarrassed and said they didn't know. What's the matter with them? ‘What you mean, you don't know?'

To his horror, Joan snapped at him. ‘Like we said, we don't know. We're goin' ourselves in a minute, hain't we, Mavis? Thass no fun with nobody here.'

‘Thass right,' Mavis said. She smoothed her hair in her usual way but she was still avoiding his eye. ‘We're waitin' five minutes in case the Yanks come an' then we're off.'

There's something up, he thought. No doubt of that. And now thoroughly alarmed he went on questioning. ‘You meeting her somewhere else then, are you?'

‘No we hain't,' Joan said, much too aggressively. ‘If you want to know.'

‘Where is she then?'

‘We don't know,' they chorused. And now he was sure they were hiding something and that it was serious.

‘Don't worry,' he said pretending nonchalance. ‘I'll find her.'

But although he roamed the town all evening and prowled in and out of the dancehall at regular intervals, the only people he found were Tubby and Spikey Spencer, who were half-cut and no use to him at all, except for buying drinks. By the time he got home he was brewing a hangover which was most unlike him, and as a result he spent most of Sunday sleeping it off. It was all rather demoralising.

However, on Monday morning, as he set off to work, the weather blew him into life again. There was a strong tide running and a strong wind howling and rain clouds were fairly scudding across the town, ragged with speed.

‘Thass more like November than the first week of June,' his workmates complained, grumbling in to start the week. But it restored Victor's optimism. She might not have been at the dance but she had to be at work. He could find her there. Normally he wouldn't have dared
to intrude on her during a working day but this had gone on long enough. That lunch hour, after combing his hair until it looked as slick as a wet otter, he stepped out into the gale in the High Street and fought his way to the draper's.

The manager homed in upon him at once, hopeful of a possible sale, having recognised the bank clerk's uniform. But when he heard that the young man was simply looking for Miss Nelson, he lost interest.

‘Miss Nelson doesn't work here any more,' he said, already turning away. ‘She's been gone more than a fortnight.'

He could feel his heart shrinking in his chest. ‘Gone? Where to?'

The manager wasn't rising to that, especially as a valuable customer had just come in. ‘I couldn't say, I'm sure. Ah Mrs Todd, may I be of service?'

Victor walked back into the gale seething with emotion. To have to endure being put down – and by a shopkeeper of all people – was bad enough, but to discover that Barbara had left the shop was worse. Where had she gone? Had she got a new job? Why hadn't he heard?

As soon as he finished work that evening he went round to Mrs Bosworth's house with a direct question. And got the answer he didn't want.

‘Hain't livin' here no more,' Becky told him, She felt hideously guilty about all this but there was no point in pretending.

He looked at her steadily, recognising that she was embarrassed. ‘Where's she gone then?'

She had to answer that too, even though she could see how much it was upsetting him, poor boy. ‘London.'

‘Whereabouts in London?'

‘New Cross.'

‘How long for?'

‘Don' ask me.'

But he persisted. ‘You mean she's left home. Is that it?'

Becky gave him her foxy look, tilting her head to one side. ‘Thass about the size of it,' she admitted.

He couldn't bear to ask her anything else in case the answer was what he feared. He'd go to Dodger's Yard and see what Mrs Nelson had to say. Horse's mouth sort of thing. ‘Well thanks anyway,' he said.

Maudie Nelson had had a bad day and was none too pleased to see him. A wet Monday was always a nuisance because it meant the washing had to be dried indoors and the room was clobbered enough without having wet clothes drip-drip-drip everywhere. And then Jimmy had been sent home from school because he'd been sick in the playground so she'd spent the entire afternoon looking after him and trailing in and out to the lavvy with his stinking chamber pot. Now he was upstairs in bed sleeping it off and the whole house was sour with the smell of vomit.

‘No,' she said. ‘I don' know where she is. I got enough on my plate without worryin' about our Bar'bra. Ask Mrs Bosworth.'

‘I just come from there.'

‘So what she say?'

He explained and was appalled to see that it was news to her too. What
was
going on?

Maudie kept her feelings under control. No point letting him know what she was thinking. ‘Well there you are then,' she said. ‘She gone to London. Got a job there I shouldn't wonder. Thass what 'tis.'

Her complacency made him cruel and cruelty drove him to face the thing he feared the most. ‘This is all to do with that soldier,' he told her. ‘He'll be behind it. You see if I'm not right. I'll bet she's run off with him. I warned you. You remember.'

She
did
remember and was annoyed to be reminded. But she hardened her mouth and her heart. ‘Thass orl
squit,' she said. ‘You don't wanna take no notice of that. Toughest thing in shoe-leather our Bar'bra. You wouldn't catch her runnin' off with no soldier.' But as soon as he'd gone sloping out of the yard, she hauled young Wilfred away from his game of marbles, left him to keep an eye on his brother and ran round to Becky's to demand to know what was going on.

Becky was standing by the fire cooking her solitary supper. The table was set for one, with two slices of bread and butter on a side plate, the newspaper folded and ready to read, and a mustard pot beside the tea things. So he was right, Maudie understood. She hain't living
here
no more.

‘I've onny got a minute,' Becky warned, ‘an' then I shall be eatin'.'

‘Now look'ee here,' Maudie said, her face pink with fury. ‘What's all this I hear about our Bar'bra? An' don't go givin' me load of ol' squit. I wants to know.'

It was the moment Becky had feared ever since she signed that dratted form, but she faced up to it at once. ‘She gone to London,' she said turning the sausage she was frying. ‘Got a job on the trams. Doin' very well so she say.'

‘Vic Castlemain say thass on account of that soldier,' Maudie said. ‘To hear him talk you'd think she'd run off with the bloke.'

She'd hoped for denial and reassurance but she didn't get either. ‘Thass right,' Becky said. The truth was out now and they'd all have to get on with it. ‘She has. His name's Steve Wilkins an' you'd better get used to it, 'cos she's married him.'

The information was so upsetting that Maudie began to weep. ‘She hain't,' she cried. ‘She can't have. She got more sense than that. I told her not to. I warned her.'

‘Thass as may be,' Becky said, ‘but she has. Now there's my supper ready an' waitin'. If you'll excuse me.'

Maudie didn't care about supper. ‘She
can't
have,'
she insisted. ‘I never gave consent. You have to have consent when you're under twenty-one.'

Becky felt cornered. But she found a possible answer. ‘Special licence,' she suggested. ‘Thass what it'll be. Special licence.'

‘Oh my dear heart alive!' Maudie said. ‘What'll Crusher say? He'll go off his head.'

‘Don't tell him, then,' Becky advised, sliding the sausage off the cooking fork onto her plate. ‘What the eye don' see.'

‘What's the good of sayin' that?' Maudie wailed. ‘He'll find out. Bound to. I mean you can't keep that sort of secret from a bloke like Crusher. How could she
do
such a thing? Stupid little mawther!'

Becky sat down at the table and poured herself a cup of tea. ‘If you'll excuse me,' she said pointedly.

So Maudie left her and took her bad news home. And just as she'd predicted, Crusher lost his temper. He hollered for a full five minutes, calling his daughter every name he could lay his tongue to, berating Maudie for not keeping her under control, Becky Bosworth for letting her run wild, the army for putting temptation in her way, the church for aiding and abetting. ‘They should've let into her an' sent her straight back home to me. Thass what
they
should've done.' He made such a noise that he soon had all the neighbours peering from their windows.

‘She no daughter of mine,' he roared, ‘an' she needn't think it. You jest tell her that. No daughter of mine. I s'pose she got herself into trouble, stupid little mawther. Thass what 'tis, hain't it. Well thass her stupid look-out. If she has a bebby she'll have to look after it. Soldiers are all the same. She should've knowd. I hain't accountable if she took leave of her senses. An' don't tell me they got a special licence because that hain't legal. That I
do
know. She needn't think she can come crawling back here an' aspect me to fergive her. You
tell her that an' all. I'm done with her. She no daughter of mine.'

Then he stomped off to the pub where he went through the whole diatribe again with his mates. By closing time, the yards were agog with interest.

Shrimpy Castlemain took the tale home to his wife. ‘That won't please our Victor none,' he observed as he removed his boots.

‘No,' Vera agreed. And she wondered how she was going to break it to him. Poor boy.

‘Hassen you up to bed,' Shrimpy advised. ‘Time enough to tell
him
in the mornin'.'

So for once in his life Vic came back from the pub to a dead fire and a dark house. And the next morning, as he was adjusting his tie ready to leave for work, his mother asked him if he'd heard the news.

He knew what it was from the expression on her face but he did his best to be nonchalant about it. Whatever he heard, he was going to be sensible, and he certainly wasn't going to holler. ‘That's about Barbara, ain't it,' he said. ‘I did hear something, last night.' It was a lie. He'd been in a pub on the other side of town, deliberately putting a distance between himself and the news he didn't want to hear.

‘Gone to London,' his mother told him anxiously. ‘Working there. On the trams, so they say. Her pa's thrown her out. Well not thrown her out axactly, 'cos she gone already, but sort of disowned her. The thing is, they say she's married some soldier. Oh Vic, my lovey, I'm ever so sorry.'

‘Thass all right,' he said, cutting her short before she could upset him even more. ‘I know all about it, Ma. Actually I've known for weeks. She told me. Must be off, or I shall be late.' And he walked from the house and out of the yard, swaggering slightly and whistling through his teeth to show how little he cared. But his thoughts were buzzing like hornets and every one with a vicious sting. He'd begun to face up to the fact that
she'd taken herself off to London. It left him looking a fool in front of his friends, but he could make out a good case to explain it. Lots of people went to London. He'd go there himself if he got half a chance. The jobs were better there and so was the pay. But getting married was something else. The mere idea was an affront. It made him shrivel. How could she be married? She's my gal. She's always been my gal. We're as good as engaged, and everybody knows it. But that made him shrivel away to nothing. How could he look his friends in the eye when his as-good-as-fiancée had run off and married a soldier? A common soldier, for heaven's sake! She's only known him five minutes. It was too demoralising to cope with.

He was very glad to arrive at his desk and start work. Arithmetic was calming and God knows he needed a bit of peace. But that morning there was very little time for calm or work. He'd hardly got started when the manager came running out of his office with his hair standing on end to say that the Second Front had started.

‘I just this minute heard it on the wireless,' he told his staff. He'd had a wireless in his office for months, tuned in expressly for this eventuality. ‘Just this minute. Special bulletin. They went in this morning on the north coast of France.'

There was uproar in the office, as his staff cheered and said how wonderful it was and that it was about time too. But although Victor nodded and appeared to be joining in the general clamour, inside his head he was leaden with misery.

What do I care! he thought to himself. They can invade the whole of Europe if they like. It don't mean anything to me.

Barbara's tram was in the Old Kent Road and heading for the Elephant and Castle when four passengers came tumbling aboard, ablaze with the news. ‘Second Front!
Ain't it grand! Early this morning. Yeh! It's official. It was on the wireless.'

Although she'd been expecting it ever since Steve's first letter, it still caught her off balance. She could feel the blood draining from her face. ‘Oh, my dear heart alive!' she said, and put her hand on the back of the nearest seat to steady herself.

‘You all right, lovey?' one of the newcomers asked.

The woman sitting in the corner seat answered up for her. ‘You got someone there, ain'tcher, duck?'

She admitted that she had.

‘What's his name?' the woman asked.

‘Steve.' Oh please God don't let him be killed.

‘Steve,' the woman repeated. ‘I'll say a prayer for him, duck. Don't fret. He'll be all right.'

Barbara was recovering a little. She thanked her new friend, adjusted her ticket rack, advanced along the tram towards her passengers, even managed to call, ‘Fares please!' as if it were a normal day. But she was taut with anxiety and, after a few minutes, unaccountably in pain, with a familiar dragging sensation pulling at her belly. I shouldn't be due on yet, she thought. But due or not that was what was happening to her. She didn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed. A baby would have been only natural after so much love, but to carry it here, in a strange town, with a war going on and being worried about him all the time …