Lover (15 page)

I was on my own in the office just before lunch when he came in—he'd obviously been hanging about in the corridor waiting for everyone to leave. I carried on pounding my typewriter.

‘Did you get home safely?'

I glanced up, just for a moment. I hadn't formed any idea of what to say to him—too agitated for that—but he looked so sorry for himself, so wretched, that I despised him utterly, and couldn't believe I'd ever felt any different. I felt disgusted at myself for letting him kiss me, and even more for enjoying it. Now I'd seen him, I just wanted him to leave so I could put it out of my mind. I couldn't bear to look at him, so I kept my eyes on the typing.

‘Well, obviously, or I wouldn't be here, would I?'

‘I was worried about you, out there all on your own.'

‘Were you really?'

‘Lucy, don't be like this.'

Thump, thump on the typewriter. Carriage return—ping!

‘There was nothing I could do, you must see that.'

‘Oh, must I?'

‘I was trapped. That man—'

Thump, thump.

‘I wanted to come down earlier, but I've been tied up all morning.'

‘Well, you didn't try very hard to get untied.'

‘
Lucy
…'

Thump, thump, thump.

‘Can't you stop, just for a moment?'

‘I'm busy.'

‘I want to talk to you.'

‘Oh, really?'

‘Yes. I know you're angry, and I don't blame you.'

‘I'm delighted to hear it.'

‘Lucy,
please
.'

Thump, thump—ping!

‘I couldn't help it, really! That man, he knows me, knows… I couldn't think, I just panicked.'

‘Yes, you did rather, didn't you?' I pulled the papers and carbon up through the rollers, and looked him right in the eye. ‘I must say, I'm surprised you don't have a better speech prepared. After all, you must have done this sort of thing before.'

He looked wounded. ‘No! Never. But then,' he smiled, weakly, ‘I've never met anyone as irresistible as you.'

I thought, that came out pat, all right! I folded my arms. ‘Clearly not so irresistible as all that.'

‘But you agreed to come.'

‘Yes. Yes, I did. That was a mistake. It won't be repeated.' I picked up more paper and fed it into the typewriter.

He walked towards the door, and paused. ‘I…'

‘Yes?'

‘Nothing. Never mind. I'll go.' And that was that. Except that I suddenly remembered it wasn't, because of the arrangement we'd made for me to help one day a week, but decided I'd have to cross that bridge when I came to it. I felt rather shaky, but satisfied I'd done the right thing.

I looked up at the sky on the way home and felt that
somebody
was watching over me. I barely said hello to Mums, but rushed to my bedroom—sure enough, the brooch was still there. When I held it in my hand I could see
his
face so clearly, the blue eyes and the golden hair like a blaze around his head. I could almost imagine he was right there in the room. I wondered, suddenly, if he was still alive—the idea that I might never see him again is awful. I clutched the brooch tightly and closed my eyes, hoping for some feeling or intuition about him, but got nothing. Told myself I was being thoroughly idiotic, but the desire to go on thinking about him, imagining what he might be doing, was so strong that I lay down on the bed, closed my eyes, and gave in to it. I can't bear the thought that I may never know what happens to him.

I want so much to believe that the circumstances of our meeting have some significance, that they were meant to happen—finding the bird's wings in the garden like that, burying them and saying a prayer, and then, in the evening, being lost and frightened and wanting an angel and him just appearing like that and taking me into the shelter and giving me the brooch. But I know it's not a pattern at all—at least, it would be in a book, but not in real life. Which this isn't, really. Not
normal
real life, anyway. Hard to imagine anything being normal ever again.

I must have been more tired than I thought, because the next thing I knew, Minnie was shaking me, saying that the siren had gone and supper was ready and she and Mums were going to have theirs under the stairs. Had mine in the usual place and thought how nice it would be to have an evening meal at the table instead of underneath it, as so often seems to be the case at the moment. Nice music on the wireless, until it had a fit of the splutters and died. I felt restless and fed up and wished I was doing something, instead of just sitting about. Resolved to put my name down for the mobile canteen.

Mums went to sleep after a while, and Minnie came over to join me. She said that old Mrs Grout told Mums that her dog can tell the difference between our planes and theirs. Seems pretty unlikely, but at least it's stopped barking during the raids, which is something, because that certainly kept us awake, even if the bombs didn't!

Had another queer dream: I was lying flat on my back on a table, wearing a black frock. The skirt kept riding up at the sides and I was trying to put my hand down to smooth it over my knees because there was someone there, but I couldn't make it stay…and then I saw it was a man in a dark suit. It didn't look like anyone particular, but I knew it was Mr Bridges, the way you do in dreams. He had scissors, big ones, and he stood at my feet and bent over and started to cut up the middle of the dress from the hem. The material was parting, showing the tops of my legs, and I wanted to pull the edges together to cover myself up, but I couldn't seem to sit up enough to do it; there was something pressing down on my head, stopping me. I suddenly realised that I didn't have my underclothes on and I wanted to get off the table and find them, and I was about to say this when I saw that my airman was there, watching. I didn't want him to see me like that so I tried to get up but there was something lying across me, pinning me down, and I couldn't move at all. I must have started thrashing around because I banged my head pretty smartly on the underside of one of the chairs, which woke me up, and after a moment I saw that Minnie's arm was flung out across my stomach, and that's what it must have been in the dream that was stopping me from moving.

Minnie woke up a second later, looked round wildly, ‘What? What is it?' and banged her head on the table leg.

I said, ‘It's all right,' and rubbed it for her, thinking she'd lie down again and go back to sleep, but she didn't.

She whispered, ‘You know that brooch you were holding, when I came up to your room…did Frank give it to you?'

It was too dark to see her face—or for her to see mine, thank goodness. I didn't want to explain. ‘Yes.'

‘I just thought… It doesn't look like you, somehow.'

‘It's more for luck, really. From his mother.'

‘Oh.' Minnie sounded puzzled. ‘I just thought perhaps you'd—well, it sounds silly, now—but I thought you might have met somebody else.'

‘What sort of somebody else?'

‘You know. A man.'

‘No!' I certainly wasn't going to tell her I'd made a fool of myself over Mr Bridges, and besides, I think she's secretly rather keen on Frank. I remember once when we were both at the bottom of the garden, with our backs to him, and he mistook her for me and gave her a kiss, and she blushed like anything.

‘Sssh. I'm sorry, it's just that you've been funny. Secret. You always used to tell me things.'

‘There's nothing to tell. I'm just tired, that's all.'

‘Me too. I suppose that's why I imagined… But everybody is, aren't they? You know, this morning I did the stupidest thing. I was on my way to work, going past a bomb site and I saw a whole pile of glittering things on the pavement, all spilled out, like treasure, and I went over, not to take anything, just to look. It was like little jewels, and I picked one up to see what it was. I had it in my palm and I suddenly realised it was a glass eye. It was an oculist's shop with the window blown out, and his stock lying on the ground, hundreds of glass eyes staring at me. I was dreaming about them just now. It was creepy—I'm glad you woke me up.'

‘It sounds horrible. You didn't tell that to Mums, did you?'

‘'Course not.'

‘Will you be able to go back to sleep now?'

‘I suppose so. I wish the All-Clear would go.'

She sighed and settled herself down, and after a few minutes I could tell she was asleep. I listened to her breathing and thought how lucky I am to have such a nice sister. I felt bad about lying to her, but I couldn't have explained—well, I suppose I could, and just not mentioned about the dinner, but I'm no good at making things up, I can't think fast enough. And anyway, if I told Minnie, it would make it all less
special
, somehow. I felt a twinge of guilt—like toothache—about Frank, but managed to suppress it by remembering Minnie's story about the glass eyes. Found myself wondering if people take them out to sleep. I shouldn't fancy waking up to find my own eye staring back at me from inside a glass of water.

I woke up with an aching head and back, but managed to get through the day without running into Mr Bridges, which I was rather dreading. On the way home, I saw lovers in a doorway, embracing. For some reason, it reminded me of my dream and I felt rather disturbed by it. I bought a newspaper in order to have something else to think about—just as well as the train halted outside Charing Cross and didn't move again for three-quarters of an hour!

There was a small piece about a woman killed in Soho, not far from where I was two nights ago. Miss Edith Parker, twenty-six, blonde dance hostess—and we all know what
that
means! It reminded me of the woman I saw in the shelter. I suppose they rather let themselves in for that sort of thing, but all the same, it isn't very nice. The paper said she was strangled. But I suppose it makes a change from reporting the war as if it were cricket—one man on the train pointed to a piece in his paper about the RAF and said, ‘Shades of Don Bradman!' The woman with him said, ‘Yes, dear,' and didn't seem at all interested, for which I don't blame her. But it reminded me of ‘my' airman, and I couldn't help but wonder about him. Still, it took up the rest of the journey nicely.

Arrived home at half past seven, in the middle of an air-raid—I could hear planes and the crump of bombs falling, but nothing very near, thank goodness. Dad and Minnie were under the kitchen table, and she was helping him mend his bicycle: he'd ridden into a bomb crater and the front wheel was bent. He was in high spirits, and made us laugh a lot with a story about an old lady who was deaf as a post and didn't know there was a raid on. He crawled out from under the table and showed us the pantomime he'd done, swooping round the kitchen pretending to be a plane and miming bombs falling. He seemed to be enjoying himself, and we were, too—at least until Mums emerged from her hidey-hole to say we were giving her a headache with all the thumping about and laughing. Then she saw the bicycle and ticked us off for having it in the kitchen.

Dad had to go on duty after that. The bicycle was still wobbly, but it seemed to work all right when he rode it round the kitchen table—after Mums had gone, of course. The gas was off again, so Minnie and I raced around assembling bread and cheese and salad, then settled down to play Happy Families under the table. She was beating me hands down; my thoughts were going round and round in circles with Mr Bridges and my airman and whether it meant anything and Frank and what to do about him, and I couldn't concentrate at all.

Minnie said, ‘Are you sure there's nothing wrong?'

‘I'm sorry.' I threw my cards down in disgust.

‘I
knew
you'd got Master Bun. And Mrs Flower. Honestly, Lucy…'

‘Oh, who cares? Minnie, can I ask you something?'

‘Why not?'

‘Do you believe there's life after death?'

She stopped collecting cards and looked at me. ‘What a funny question. I don't know. Why?'

‘I was thinking about it. Just trying to make sense of things, I suppose.' I meant about my airman, really, and the bird's wings and wanting it to mean something, but I didn't want to tell her that.

She said, ‘Do you mean angels and paradise and all that?'

‘I don't know, really. Just some sort of survival.'

‘Well, maybe. But not harps and clouds. I mean, people floating about with wings when they'd been bank managers or something, they'd feel pretty silly, wouldn't they? And if it is bank managers and…I don't know, dentists, then it must be full of people one wouldn't want to see again. Like those gravestones you see, the huge, heavy ones—it's probably the family making sure that Great Aunt Maud or whoever it is can't possibly get out, because the thought of a reunion is too grim for words. And as for hell…' she rolled her eyes. ‘Where's Miss Dose the doctor's daughter?'

‘You're sitting on her.'

‘So I am.' She yawned. ‘It's awfully quiet. Do you think we might go upstairs?'

I looked at my watch—quarter to ten—and the idea of being in bed suddenly seemed far more tempting than a serious discussion. ‘Come on. But for heaven's sake be
quiet
.'

We tiptoed past Mums's cupboard like naughty children—the door was closed and loud snores issuing from inside—and up the stairs.

Minnie whispered, ‘This is mad!'

The first thing I did was to check that the brooch was still under my pillow. I didn't undress, just changed my skirt for slacks and rinsed out my stockings before I got into bed.

I was woken up by planes at two, and was wondering whether I should go downstairs when there was a crash from below. I flew down the stairs in bare feet. Minnie was in her nightdress in the hall, struggling with the front door.

‘Incendiary bomb!' she shouted, swinging round, her eyes huge and terrified in a stark white face. ‘Out there!'