Last Friends (Old Filth Trilogy) (11 page)

‘When are we
going
?’ they lamented. Not only the German bombs at night but the huge barrage of Liverpool gun-fire thundered all around them, hour after hour all night. ‘Soon,’ they were told, ‘Soon.’ Two of the children had been on board the earlier evacuee ship a fortnight ago which had been torpedoed, but everyone saved. These two seemed stolidly unconcerned.

There were also the paying passengers, ‘business-men, diplomats and professors and people of pre-war opulence,’ as was later reported in the press. Among these were Mr. and Mrs. Fondle and their party from North Yorkshire, expecting to board the
S.S. City of Benares
at once.

But the train had been slow and they had been obliged to sit with their elite group of children in one of the sheds on the quay. And, later, their supper was the same as the children’s. Veronica Fondle picked at the slices of National Wholemeal bread—pale grey—a little grey pie, some wet grey cabbage and a dollop of ‘instant potato’ called Pom.

The Fondles did not seem to be hungry. They leaned back from the communal bench and smoked black cigarettes with gold tips. Mrs. Fondle patted the seat next to her and said, ‘Not long now, Terence.’ The poorer children raced about and screamed and shouted like a flock of autumn starlings suddenly wheeling, like smoke, out of sight of the dormitory sheds. Terry said, ‘There’s not one of them older than ten.’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that, Terry. Terry you must stop saying “
Wan
”. You are travelling with us.’

He could think of no answer. He could not bear her face or her voice. After a time he took a last bite into the so-called tart (Apricot, but it was marrow jam) and said, “
One
” and she said, ‘
Much
better.’

‘Can I get a message home? I’ve got the priest’s number. It’s only one and twopence.’

‘Oh, I don’t think we want to unsettle them.’

‘Well, I’ll write, then, Mrs. Fondle. I promised. She give me the stamp for it.’

‘
Gave
,’ said Mrs. Fondle. She and Harold Fondle then disappeared.

Terry wrote his letter and went to find a post-box, with no success. It was bed-time apparently now and they were sent to a place full of bunks. Two big, plain, confident girls—twins—were to sleep below him. They looked to be eleven at most, but large and commanding. ‘You an escort?’ one asked. ‘You’re no evacuee. Not
your
age.’

‘I’m not quite fourteen.’

‘D’you not want to stay and fight then?’

‘I don’t know about that. Do you?’

‘We’re girls,’ they said ‘It would just to be in Munitions. I don’t want to make bombs for anyone. There must be kids like us, over there.’

In the night he heard one of the girls crying and her sister’s head rose up like a vision beside his face on the bunk above. ‘Our dad and mam’s dead in the raid. Faery’s weak. I’m her twin sister.’

He rose early next morning, both sisters humps in grey blankets below. He dressed and put on the hooded coat his mother had made him. He was so tall he might have been anybody.

He climbed aboard, up a steep gangway unnoticed. He walked about on deck. He slipped amidships and soon came to a graceful staircase like Hollywood. Like
A Hundred Men and a Girl
. And high above him on the stair he saw the toes of shiny golden curled slippers jutting over the top step. He found that these feet were attached to the graceful Aladdin-trousers of a golden man in a golden coat and purple turban. This smiling man beckoned and bowed.

‘Come little sir. Welcome to the East. Welcome to the
City of Benares
. See what is now before you.’

What was before him was
The Arabian Nights
. The palms. The languid loungers, the gleaming restaurants, the clean cabins for them all—not only for the paying passengers. The white linen hand-towels, the ballroom, and everywhere a glorious smell of spices and food he seemed somewhere to have known. An orchestra was tuning up upon a white marble dais.

There was a play-room for the little ones, full of toys. A rocking-horse stood there against a wall, its nostrils flaring. It was a strong rocking-horse with basket-work seats fastened one to each side of the saddle, all wicker-work but very firm and beautiful. Then away went the steward, about the ship. Coloured streamers, big white teeth smiling, princes bowing to him. It must be a film!

Terry felt very much afraid. He was being mocked. He needed to speak, not to his father but to his mother. There were no women on board this ship. They were all princes, all bowing at him and all false. He had never seen anything like this in the Palace Cinema in Herringfleet.

‘I don’t think I am meant to be here,’ he said. ‘Who are you?’

‘I am a steward on this glorious ship. It is only one year old. It is known as The Garden of the East. You, all you children, are going to be in heaven. You will be Royalty, even the smallest, away from all harm of war. You will eat chicken and salmon and eastern fruit, rich meats, wines, sherbets, bananas and ice-cream—.’

He was terrified. ‘I have to go back. I am not meant to be here. It’s a dream.’

‘Perhaps the whole world is a dream.’

He ran back on deck. Children were beginning to climb the gangways now, some hand in hand, some solemn, some excited, none looking back, none crying. All so little.

On the quay a few flags were being waved. Someone began to sing half-heartedly ‘Wish Me Luck as You Wave Me Goodbye’ and from across the harbour on one of the escort ships which were to come with them to keep them safe, the song was taken up and sailors on her deck began to sing and to wave and cheer. The two stolid twins, big and heavy in what looked like their mother’s winter clothes, passed Terry by without noticing him. From the inside of the ship came cries of amazed delight, the Pied Piper’s children passing inside the mountain.

He asked someone about the Fondles, and was told that they would already have boarded by a different gangway for the paying passengers.

He said ‘I’ll go back to the quay then, and find it.’

‘No need,’ said another golden Indian man in white. ‘Come this way.’ He had gold tabs on his shoulders.

‘I have to go down. I’ve left my bag.’

‘Someone can escort you.’

‘I can manage.’

‘Hurry then, little master.’

He began to push against the stream of passengers coming up the gangway. He pushed harder, knocking them out of the way, and he was free.

Across the quay, in and then out of last night’s dark lodging—his luggage was still there.

‘Get
aboard
!’ A Liverpool voice. ‘’Ere—you! You’s a passenger—I seed yer. I remember the hair.’

‘Just going.’

He pulled up the hood of the coat and half an hour later he was far away, running like mad from the port, wandering in battered, broken Liverpool, looking for a phone-box.

* * *

He had the right money and he telephoned Father Griesepert. There was no answer, so he rang Mr. Smith’s number, up in the house on the moor—no phones yet in Muriel Street—and after a long time and the telephonist twice asking if she should disconnect him, little Fred Smith’s voice answered.

‘It’s Terry. Is yer Dad there?’

‘Yer’ll ’ave ter ’old on. They’re not awake yet after last night.’

‘Get him, Fred.’

* * *

‘Hullo? Terry? Terry!’

‘Yes. Sorry, Mr. Smith. I’m comin’ home.’

‘You can’t. It is utterly impossible.’

‘Well, I’m coming. I have the money from Da.’

‘You can’t. There’s no trains. Middlesbrough station was destroyed last night. The lines are broken everywhere.’

‘Yes. Well. I’m still coming. Somehow. The ship’s awash with bairns and little kids and them Fondles is after me. I don’t know why, I don’t trust them. They think I’m theirs. I’m not theirs. I’m me Mam’s. And me Dad’s. I’se jumped ship. The ship’s about to sail. I’m somewhere in Liverpool. They’ll never find me.’

The operator said, ‘Your three minutes is up. Do you want to pay for more time?’

He pushed some shillings and then pennies into the slot and after they had clattered down there was silence again.

But then, at last, Mr. Smith’s voice saying, ‘D’you think you can find The Adelphi Hotel? Terry? Very big. Dark. Ask anyone.’

‘Yes. I think it’s right near. I think I’m beside it. I must have gone in a circle.’

‘Go in there. I’ll phone them and say you’re coming. Right. Now, sit in the main Bar there if they’ll let you. Out of sight if you can. Say someone’s coming for you. Say you’ve had bad news from home that means you are unable to leave the country just now. Give anyone this number. Terry—if this is panic it may not be too late—.’

There was a boom like the Last Judgement across the City of Liverpool and
The City of Benares
, its funnels calling out like organ pipes, began its graceful journey towards the Atlantic Ocean.

‘It’s not panic, Mr. Smith. And it
is
too late. I know I’m doing right, Mr. Smith. I’m sorry.’

‘You’ve been listening to the slaughterer, Mr. Churchill, forbidding us to run away.’

‘No. Look. Will you tell Mam and Da? I’m coming home.’

‘You’ve had your three shillings’ worth and more,’ said the operator. ‘I couldn’t help listening. I’m not sure of Churchill neither. Always was a war-monger. Death and glory. I’d go home meself if I was you lad.’

‘Thanks. I know what I’m doing,’ said Terry. ‘Thanks, Mr. Smith. I’m fine.’ But his hand shook so much that it took him three attempts to get the heavy black hand-piece back on its hook. Behind it he saw his face in the small spotted mirror. It looked set and certain. Totally certain. I look like me Da, he thought. So that’s O.K.

Still there?’
The barman at the Adelphi’s shadowy and vast main bar was, towards evening, still polishing glasses. Terry was almost out of sight as he had been for hours around the side of the bar on a black-painted step near the floor, his case beside him, waiting for the telephone to ring.

‘You’s sure now that he’s coming? It’s after tea now.’

‘If Mr. Smith said so—.’

‘Well, he said there’d be someone coming to get you, not him. Someone nearer, but not that near. Fromt Lake District. Not nobody, not God, could get over from Teesside today. News travels. It’s not int papers or ont wireless yet. Bombed and flattened the steel-works. First bad ’un they’ve had there. We’s all but used to it ’ere. You’s well away—there’ll be more. Aren’t you the daft ’un not on that luxury liner with the toffs?’

Terry sat on. ‘Can I have a drink? A bar drink.’

‘I’ll give you one small beer.’

‘No. I want Vodka. I’m partly Russian.’

‘I’ve been noticing the hair.’

‘I’ve been collecting round my school for the Red Cross Penny-a-Week fund for Russia.’

‘Why?’

‘I’m a Communist.’

‘Oh God,’ said the barman. ‘Switch off. You’ve got ground to cover yet. Never mind your father. Hullo? Oh, good evening? Yes. Along here. Someone is coming.’

It was a false hope. Terry sat on. He said, ‘We never met anyone from the Lake District. Where’s the Lake District? I thought it was Canada—like Erie and Michigan and that.’

‘By God, you’re ignorant. Where you been all your life, Lenin? Herringfleet? Cod’s-head folk.’

‘That’s right. Can you get me a sandwich?’

‘There’s none here to get it for you and nowt to put in it if there was! Mebbe in the police-station if none turns up here for you.’

‘Bit longer,’ said Terry, ‘Mr. Smith won’t forget. What’s that?’

Far away in the main foyer of the hotel there was, drawing nearer, a clear, rhythmic, distinctive mechanical sort of voice. ‘—let that be understood. From the beginning. Thank you, yes.’ A small man was walking towards them from the far end of the long shadowed passage, talking as if addressing an audience. ‘And this is my passenger, I dare say?’

‘If you’ve come from a Mr. Smith,’ said the barman.

‘I have. Good afternoon. Stand up, boy. Shake hands with me. A straight back and a direct look. Good. Good. My name is Sir. Just Sir. I am the headmaster of a school in the Lake District where Mr. Smith was once my deputy. All my deputies are called Mr. Smith but this Mr. Smith is authentically Smith. A fine man. My school is called a Preparatory School, or Prep School. My Outfit. I’m afraid you are rather too old for my Outfit but we shall see what can be done.’

(‘He’s a Communist,’ said the barman. ‘We must discuss the matter,’ said Sir.)

‘It is a pity that you are so old for I believe there is much I can do for you.
Hair-wise
(look up hair in Latin. Roman customs and barbering) and now what
exactly
is your name? I gather that it is uncertain.’

‘Yes. It has always been a sort of uncertainty.’

‘It must be settled at once. It is most important. If I can do nothing else I can do that. Venitski? Vanetski? Varenski? Are you all illiterate in Herringfleet?’

‘Dad never really discussed it. He came from Odessa.’

(‘It’s Ivan-Skavinski-Skavar,’ said the barman and began to sing the tune.)

‘Enough!’ shouted Sir. ‘This is a very serious matter. Your name henceforth shall be Veneering. Yes. Delightful. Polished. In Dickens, Veneering (look up
Our Mutual Friend
) is an unpleasant character and you will have to redeem him. Veneering has a positive and memorable ring. Rather jolly. You do not look
un
-Dickensian, but you look far from jolly.’

‘
So
—let us leave at once. Tonight you will be staying in the Lake District mountains in my Outfit. Mr. Smith is coming to remove you tomorrow.’

‘Does he know that you will have given me a new name?’

‘He won’t be surprised. A most sensible man. Has a son of his own. Maybe I’ll get him. Such a pity Mr. Smith had to leave me to get married. I have no married teachers in my Outfit. Marriage brings distractions. In my Outfit we are too busy for distractions.’

Handing the barman a five pound note the small loquacious man turned and left the Adelphi Hotel and Terry followed dragging all his worldly possessions in the suitcase.