Avalanche of Daisies (41 page)

‘That's up to the lady,' he said, looking at Barbara. ‘Would you like to live in a place like this?'

The sunlight was streaming in through the kitchen window, warming the nape of her neck, enriching the scarlet of her coat, spangling her dark hair with sharp white highlights. ‘Wouldn't I just!' she said.

‘In that case,' their guide told them, ‘follow the arrows to the next house along. If you'll give your particulars to the gentleman there, he'll see to it. His name's Mr Fishpool.'

‘I'll do it for you,' Vic offered, giving Barbara the full force of his most charming smile. ‘You stay here. See all you want to.' And was gone before she could thank him.

She was loath to leave the place, even though she knew she was holding other people up by staying. She could imagine herself living there, sitting on that comfortable sofa of an evening, in front of the fire, with Steve beside her, listening to the wireless, with his books on those shelves, and the table folded away; sleeping with him in that neat bedroom, making love in that bed. Oh to be in his arms again! It made her yearn so keenly she had to walk out of the bedroom into the bathroom to recover. She looked at the white geyser on the wall, deliberately turning her mind away from thoughts she couldn't handle. Imagine having hot water on tap, she told herself. There'd be no more boiling kettles to wash up if we rented a place like this. We could have a bath every day. It would be like living in a palace.

The next group of six was drifting in through the door, all wide-eyed and open-mouthed. She would have to go. But I'll be back, she told herself. I'll be back with Steve.
This
is the sort of house we're going to live in, the minute they say we can, the minute the war's over, the minute he's out of the army. The thought of it made her so happy that she danced out of the house, turning her face to the sun like a child, eyes widened and lips parted. She couldn't wait to write and tell him about it.

Victor was loitering under one of the lime trees. He'd unbuttoned his jacket, and pushed his fedora to the back of his head, and he was wiping his forehead with his handkerchief. He's getting hot, she thought, poor ol' bor, and he's been really kind fixing all this up for me,
getting the tickets and giving them the particulars and everything.

‘All set?' he asked, as she smiled towards him.

‘Yep. Did you give them my address or Steve's?' she said.

It had been such a casual question that she was surprised to see how shifty it made him look. ‘Oh, home address, I think,' he said vaguely. ‘Anyway, that's all taken care of. What say we go an' have a bite to eat? You got time, ain't you.'

‘Thass no good giving them my address,' she told him. ‘Thass got to be Steve's. He'll be head a' household. You always have head a' household on the rent book. Wait there. I'll see to it. I won't take long.'

He caught at her coat, trying to prevent her. ‘There's no need, Spitfire. You can tell them when they write, can't you. Let's go an' have dinner, eh?'

But she shook him off. ‘In a minute,' she said, on her way to the office. ‘I must see to this first.' A mistake had been made and it had to be put right there and then. She couldn't walk away and leave the wrong name on the application form. Especially when it was Steve's name that was missing.

Mr Fishpool was small and precise and agreed that the alteration should be made. ‘What was the name, madam?' he asked.

She told him and he searched through his list. But he couldn't find a Mrs Wilkins. ‘Not on today's list, I'm afraid.'

Barbara couldn't understand it. She looked round for Victor and an explanation, but he hadn't followed her into the office. ‘That was onny a few minutes ago,' she said. ‘That must be there.'

Mr Fishpool turned the address book towards her. ‘I can't see it,' he said. ‘Perhaps you'd like to check.'

He was right. There was no Wilkins on the page. The name that jumped into her eyes, bringing irritation with it, was Castlemain. And Mr and Mrs Castlemain what's
more. What's he playin' at? she thought furiously. I told him to put
my
name down, mine an' Steve's. Not his.

But she kept calm. ‘I can see what 'tis,' she said. ‘Thass my friend. Mr Castlemain. He was supposed to give you my name as well as his. He must have forgot.'

Mr Fishpool remembered Mr Castlemain. ‘Ah yes,' he said. ‘The young man on war work. We had quite a chat. Is your husband on war work too? It makes a difference to your application.'

‘My husband', she said with immense pride, ‘is in France with the 21st Army. He's one of the Desert Rats.'

‘In that case,' Mr Fishpool told her courteously, ‘allow me to say that I hope you will be allocated one of the very first houses we have to offer.'

So Steve's name and army address were written in the book with his home address beneath and a new application form was completed in every detail and signed with a flourish. Then she strode out into the sunshine, to have it out with Victor Castlemain.

He was standing on the common, biting his nails, and feeling horribly apprehensive. When she'd gone rushing off he'd been in two minds whether to go or stay, knowing she was bound to find out what he'd done and fearing her wrath. He'd decided against such cowardice and had hung on and thought up an excuse, but he was very uncomfortable. It had never occurred to him that his carefully laid plans could be wrecked so easily. He'd planned the conversation they were going to have, right down to the last sentence, when she was going to agree to share the pre-fab with him, and now, here she was striding across the grass, scowling at him, and despite the brave face he put on, he was inwardly quailing.

‘What's all this squit about you bein' on war work?' she said.

To be attacked from such an unexpected quarter made him huffily defensive. ‘Well so I am. That
is
war work. Food for the front line, sort of thing. Supplies for
the citizen army. If that wasn't for people like me you'd all be half starved. We're morale boosters.'

‘You're a spiv!' she said, cutting him down to size. ‘That got nothin' to do with boosting morale. I never heard such a load of ol' squit. You nick things an' sell 'em to make money.'

‘I got you a goose,' he defended himself.

‘Yes, all right, so you did,' she allowed, mellowing towards him. ‘Which I 'ppreciate.'

‘Well there you are then.'

But her attack wasn't over. ‘I got another bone to pick with you though, Victor Castlemain. I thought you were going to put
my
name down on that list. Thass what you said, wasn't it? An' what do I find when I get there?'

‘I had to give them my name to get the tickets,' he explained, using his prepared defence. ‘They were like gold dust. You wouldn't believe how many people were after them. I had to sign for them. Never known that before. And when I got into that office I had to hand them over, first thing they asked for, so I couldn't make the application in another name, could I, or they'd have smelled a rat.'

‘But you signed it Mr and
Mrs
Castlemain,' she said, only partially placated. And teased him, ‘Who's this missus? Why hain't we been introduced?'

‘That was all married couples on that list,' he explained. ‘I couldn't just put my name. They'd never have considered it.'

‘I don' know what you thought you were playin' at,' she rebuked him. ‘You should have put my name an' Steve's. Thass what you should've done. I could've lost it altogether if I hadn't gone back. They didn't teach you much sense at that ol' grammar school uv yours.'

‘It would've all come out in the wash,' he said. ‘I mean, I'd have changed it when they wrote to me, if that's what you wanted. You only had to say. I mean,
you wanted to come here, didn't you? You wanted to see them.'

‘Not if I had to pretend to be married to you,' she said, half teasing, half cross.

He drew himself up to his full height, his face serious. ‘There was a time when you
were
going to be married to me,' he said.

It hurt her to be reminded. ‘That was boy an' gal stuff.'

‘I meant it,' he said passionately. ‘I still do.'

This was getting too intense for comfort. ‘Oh come on, Vic,' she demurred. ‘Thass all over now.'

He took a breath before he answered her, calculating the risk. ‘It needn't be,' he urged. ‘I mean what's to stop us moving in together if I got one of these houses? Would that be such a bad thing?'

She was shocked. ‘You hain't seriously suggesting it, surely?'

‘I don't see why not,' he said. ‘Lots of gals do.'

‘I hain't lots of gals.'

‘Look,' he urged. ‘Times are changing. That ain't like the old days. People do all sorts of things now they'd never have dreamed of before the war. I could give you a much better life than you got at the moment. Good food. Place of your own to live. Pretty clothes. A car. I could look after you. It won't be for ever. I know that. But for a little while, just till the war's over. We're both on our own an' we ain't exactly strangers, now are we?'

The changing expressions on his face told her more than his words could ever have done – hope in the widening of his eyes, affection in the softening of his mouth, a shadow of vulnerability. Poor Vic, she understood. That
was
what he planned. He really thought I'd move in with him if he got me a house. And she knew that it wasn't just that she attracted him, he loved her, and this situation was as much her fault as
his, because she'd been going out with him as though they were courting, and she'd never told him how she felt about Steve. I should have explained everything before I got married, she realised. I hain't been fair to him.

‘I'm Steve's wife,' she told him, surprising herself by how gentle she was being. ‘I belong to him now. Even if I wanted to move in with you – which I don't, I must be honest – I couldn't. You do see that, don't you?' And she put out a hand to touch his arm, to calm him or reassure him, she wasn't sure which. And was upset to discover that he was trembling.

‘I'm as good a man as that soldier,' he said, pulling away from her, stiff-necked and offended. ‘Any day of the week. Better probably.'

She had a sudden searing vision of that soldier, walking towards her across Tuesday Market Square, long legs striding, arms outstretched to catch her up and hold her close, brown eyes smiling, lips parted. Those dear soft lips. She could feel them kissing her, could remember the taste of them, the smell of his skin as they lay cuddled together in that ferny bed. Oh my dear, dear, darling.

‘But he's the one I love,' she said. ‘I'm so sorry Vic.'

To be rejected was bad enough but to be pitied was worse. Much, much worse. ‘You're a fool!' he shouted at her. ‘You hain't got the sense you were born with. Anyone else would've jumped at an offer like that. Jumped at it. What's the point of staying with your inlaws when you could have a house of your own? Thass just false pride. I thought better of you than that. Think about it, Spitfire! I'm offering you a really good life, dancing, pictures, good food, anything you want. But no! What do you do? You turn round an' kick me in the teeth. Treat me like dirt.'

His anger upset her. ‘No,' she tried. ‘I hain't. I just said …'

But now that his fury had broken, he roared on. ‘Kick me in the bloody teeth. Treat me like dirt. Well I ain't dirt. I'm as good a man as he is any day of the week. Dammit I won't be pitied!'

She knew he'd get worse if she tried to argue. This was a North-Ender's temper and she just had to let him holler it out. ‘I got to go,' she said. ‘Tram to catch.' And set off at once across the common, striding like a man, dark hair bouncing, red coat bright against the new green grass.

Her departure stopped him in mid roar. ‘Where are you going?' he called.

‘Bellington South,' she called back. ‘I told you.'

‘Well sod you then!' he growled. ‘See if I care. Thass your loss. I made the offer. Can't do no more than that.' As he growled, a tram came buzzing along the rails on the road below and she saw it and began to run towards it. There was no bringing her back now. No making her see sense. He couldn't understand how this had happened. This is all her fault, he thought, watching as she darted into the middle of the road. She behaves as if she's queen an' everybody else is dirt. She hain't got an ounce of gratitude in her body. She got too big for her boots up here in London. She need taking down a peg or two. Showing who's boss. Anger against her reinstated him a little, restoring his self-worth. She needn't think she can put me down. I'm more than a match for
her.

The Humber was waiting for him by the kerbside. Nice obedient cars, Humbers. He got in, turned on the ignition, enjoyed the hum of the engine, patted the leather of the passenger seat, noticing that the sun had warmed it, preened in the pride of ownership. I'd like to see that soldier of hers in a Humber, he thought, as he drove off. I bet he hain't even got a pushbike. An' he'll never get her a good house. Never in a thousand years. Well she can live in a slum for all I care. Serve her right
for turning me down. How could she do such a thing? His thoughts were in such a turmoil of rejection and frustration that he had no idea where he was going. He was driving away and that was enough.

Heather Wilkins had spent that Monday morning doing the weekly wash all by herself and getting steadily more irritable. By the time she stopped for a slice of toast and a nice little pot of tea, she was hot and sweaty and her back was playing her up something rotten. She could have done with some help or at least a bit of company but Bob was on nights so he was still in bed getting his sleep, and Barbara was out visiting some friend or other. Wouldn't you know it! She'd had the grace to rinse through her own bits and pieces before she left but it wouldn't have hurt her to stay in and lend a hand with the sheets and towels. She was getting more and more selfish these days.