Lover (30 page)

On the way back, Eileen suddenly said, ‘You know them pictures Annie had? The film stars?'

‘Yes?'

‘They were smashed. Every last one. Smashed to pieces. Glass everywhere, and the frames all broken. That was more sad than anything, seeing them all like that. She was so proud of them.'

‘Yes, wasn't she?'

Those photographs, well…we used to joke about them behind Annie's back, her saying she'd been to America and she'd met them and been with them and all the rest of it. They all had these little messages written on them—‘To Annie, with fondest memories from Ronald Colman,' or Clark Gable or whoever it was—but the thing was, these film stars, if you looked closely, they all seemed to have the same handwriting! And it wasn't proper photos at all, just stuff she'd cut out of papers and magazines. But I knew what Eileen meant about being sad, because Annie was that proud of them. It was just her way of trying to make herself seem that bit more important. I suppose it's something everybody does, a little, but with her, it was so…childish, I suppose, especially from this big, strapping woman who'd take no nonsense from anybody. And that was the awful thing: if anyone could take care of herself, it was Annie. I thought, if Annie couldn't protect herself, what chance is there for the rest of us?

I felt Eileen give a little shiver, beside me, and wondered if she was thinking the same. She said, ‘What are you going to do?'

‘Same as usual. Not a lot of choice, really.'

‘No. Look, Rene, take care, all right? I shan't take them back home no more…'

‘Nor me.'

‘Well, then. Good luck.'

‘Thanks, Eileen. Be careful.'

Then she went off home, and so did I. I got dressed, and painted my face and did my hair, and all the time there was this resolve inside me, a big, cold lump, like something settled on my stomach. I was thinking:
You won't get me, you bastard. You won't get me, because I won't let you.

I went marching downstairs holding my handbag like it was a weapon, and out into the street. Well, being brave was all very well as long as it lasted, but once it got dark, that was another story—it was even worse than before: all the time, in the back of my mind, I was thinking,
is it you?

I kept nipping round the corner to see if I could catch the new girl—wanted to see if we could look out for each other, you know, keep a check. She never showed up. Probably terrified, and I don't blame her.

Not a lot of business. I kept saying to myself, another ten shillings, then I'll go. I got two pound ten in the end, and I was just about to call it a night when I heard footsteps. It sounded like a man, so I shone the torch, and then I heard, ‘Rene? That you?' and before I know it, there's Harry standing in front of me.

He said, ‘I came as soon as I could. Had to see if you were all right. I've just heard—your friend…'

‘Well, I'm still here.'

‘I was worried about you, Rene. I thought…well… I'm glad you're here, anyway.' And it's true, he did sound pleased, and I was so pleased to see
him
I could have flung my arms round his neck there and then, but I didn't, because it felt a bit peculiar, me standing there as if…you know…and him coming up to me like that, on the street. He said, ‘Look, I can't stay long, but I can walk you round to the shelter, if you like. That is, if you're…if… you know…'

‘Yes, I've… I'd like that.'

‘Come on then, take my arm. We'll get your things, shall we?'

As we walked, he said, ‘I'm sorry I've not been to see you, but the last couple of nights…and then that business in Dean Street…'

‘I know, the tobacconist—I used to go there. Terrible. And his poor wife!'

‘The house next door, as well. They were still digging this afternoon. Only just got the last one out.'

I thought, what can you say? It's terrible, but it keeps happening, all the time. And who's going to worry about some madman killing a few street girls when there's all that going on? With everybody in so much danger already, why should they care about us?

Harry came upstairs with me and waited while I gathered up my bits and pieces for the shelter. Seeing him under the light, he looked so tired and strained, I said, ‘You look as if you could do with a good night's sleep.'

He shrugged. ‘Couldn't everyone? You've got more to worry about than me, Rene. You've got to be careful.'

‘Oh, Harry…' I was determined I wouldn't cry again—not in front of him, at least—but I felt like all the heart had gone out of me. I must have looked it, too, because he said, ‘Come here.'

Being in his arms felt like the most natural thing in the world. He didn't kiss me, just held me for a long time. ‘We'll get through this, you'll see,' he said.

‘Will we?'

‘Yes. We'll come out on top.'

I said, ‘You know something, Harry…'

‘Not until you tell me.'

‘My friend Eileen, this morning…she said she thought Ted—that's Lily's ponce—she never thought he did it. Killed her, I mean. And she'd know, because she was with him before Lily, see. Said she'd seen him, too, that same night, and he was dead drunk and couldn't hardly walk. And if that's true, that means there's someone out there, a madman, because it has to be the same man, doesn't it? And he's going round—'

‘The police'll get him, Rene. You'll see, they—'

‘They don't care about us, Harry!' I broke away from him. ‘No one does. They think we're asking for it.'

‘That's not true, Rene.'

‘Of course it's true. D'you think they'd help us, any more than those old peelers, or whatever they were called, would have helped your grandmother? They don't give a monkey's, they just—'

‘Rene, listen! I
do
care about you, and I don't think you should go out, I mean, go to work…any more. I've got a bit of money, and I—'

‘I'm not taking your money, Harry.'

‘You can pay me back, when—'

‘When what? When the police find him and it's safe to go back out again? They're not going to find him, Harry. I told you, if it's us, they're not interested. They didn't find Jack the Ripper, did they?'

‘No, but that was years ago. They've got modern methods now. They'll find him.'

‘It's not their methods, Harry, it's the way they think. That's just how it is, and it's not going to change. Not ever.'

Harry sighed. ‘I know you're brave, Rene, the way you've gone on working with the blackout, the raids, but—'

‘We've all done that. No choice.'

‘I know, but now—'

‘I'm not taking your money, Harry, and there's an end to it.' And I turned my back on him and picked up my things. ‘Let's go.'

He shrugged. ‘Fair enough.'

We walked round to the shelter in silence, and I was thinking, I shouldn't have been so sharp with him when he's trying to help me, but all the same, I can't put myself in his debt like that. I've got some pride left, whatever anyone thinks. You get some girls, they'll go to a man and tell him some pathetic story and get money out of him: there's a baby coming, or the child's under the doctor, or they've got to get a divorce… I've known girls who've had as much as fifty pounds from a man that way, but I wouldn't do it. I thought of telling that to Harry, but he wouldn't understand. He'd say it's different, and I suppose it is, in a way, but all the same… Besides, I felt angry with him for offering, and angry with myself, too, for being rude, but I thought, if I try and explain, I won't be able to say it right.

Outside the shelter, he said, ‘Well, goodnight then,' and he was off before I'd even opened my mouth.

I went in—crowded again—and sat down. I thought, Well, Rene, whatever daft ideas you had about a decent life for you and Tommy—when Harry don't know Tommy even exists—you can just forget them, because it ain't going to happen. Shows you, though, how impossible it is, someone like me and a decent man like that. There's some things you do in your life that can't be undone, and whatever happened, Harry'd never forget what I'd been and nor would I, and that's the truth of it. There'd always be that between us, like a wall. And then I thought, you're making it all up, Rene, because he's never said to me about anything like that, has he? Just that he liked me, and kissed me once, and that's all. Talk about mountains out of molehills!

But I shouldn't have been so sharp with him, when he was only trying to help. I don't know why I'm bothering about any of this, really. Perhaps I'm better off with the girls, after all: like should keep to like, makes things easier all round. And the way things are going I won't be here tomorrow to worry about it, never mind the future. I'd rather have a bomb than wind up like Annie, any day. They say you don't hear the one that gets you, so at least you wouldn't know about it, would you? But you'd know if someone was choking the life out of you, all right. Poor old Annie…

T
his week's been bloody terrible, each day worse than the one before. This morning was the worst of the lot. I kept telling myself that once I'd been up, I'd be fine, but the dread was worse than it's ever been. I gripped the edge of the deckchair, planted my feet firmly on the grass, looked down… Nothing worked. Thank God nobody says much, first thing: tired, hungover, or scared shitless. It's the same for everybody: came through yesterday, but then it starts all over again, and you wonder how long you can keep it up.

Balchin looked bad, swilling down tea to get the taste of last night's beer out of his mouth. I don't suppose I looked much better. Corky was pretending to read, and Flint was trying to talk to Davy, who fell asleep in mid-sentence.

My insides started clenching and loosening, each spasm getting stronger. No good—I had to run, doubled-over, for the latrine. I got my trousers down just in time before my bowels emptied themselves like a high-pressure hose. I felt as weak as a kitten; I could have sat for ever above the pan full of vile-smelling liquid and never moved again. Hadn't even got the energy to pull the string and flush it away.

I couldn't make myself go out there. I couldn't even move. But I knew I had to, I bloody well had to. I thought, if all of them can do it—if bloody
Gervase
can do it—then so can I. I can't stay in here and shit myself while they… Then Mathy's scream cut into my mind like a knife and the pain of it was so sharp that I banged my head repeatedly against the side of the wooden hut, but it wouldn't stop, just got higher and higher until it wasn't Mathy any more but the tart and suddenly she was there in front of me, twisting from side to side on the floor, her neck a red gash and lips peeled back from her teeth in a snarl. I could see the greasy scalp through the sparse brown tufts of hair as her head thrashed back and forth and her eyes were staring and she was screaming and screaming and suddenly I felt my bowels constrict and give way. My back ached. Slowly, like an old man, I pulled myself upright, searching for paper.

I imagined Webster packing up my possessions, finding the stocking in the drawer, the compact from that first one, and the photograph of Mathy's sister—
To Tom, with love
—which was in the uniform jacket, the bloodstained one that I put in the cupboard… I wondered what he'd do. Would he tell the police? Or would he pack it all up and send it back to my mother? Not that she'd want it. My whole stomach felt scalded and empty, and all I wanted was to be left alone.

A bang on the door made the little hut shudder. ‘Goldilocks! Get a move on, we've got customers!'

I stumbled outside, fumbling at my fly, legs as weak as water. I stooped to pick up my parachute and helmet and someone cannoned into me from behind—‘Move, for Christ's sake!'—Balchin sprinted past me, tailed by Corky and Davy. I followed as best I could, heart pounding, a voice in my head saying,
I can't do this
… I've got to do this: I haven't got a choice.

The planes gleamed dully in the thin, early morning sun and for the first time in my life I saw them not as beautiful, but monstrous. I didn't want to approach them. The fear was almost paralysing, and for a moment I thought I might shit myself again but then something in my stomach hardened and I was able to move forward. The fitter jumped down from the wing. Parachute on. He put a hand under my arm to help me up and I was shaking like hell—he must have felt it, but he said nothing. Right foot planted on the wing, then the other, and I swung into the cockpit. And I thought, what the hell happens next? I couldn't remember what I was supposed to do. There was a voice in my head saying, ‘Instinct, trust your instinct.' But what instinct? My only bloody instinct was to stay on the ground and not get killed.

Instructions came, muffled, as if someone was shouting through a dense fog. A voice from inside me was saying strap in, switch on, check oxygen… My hands seemed to scuttle about of their own accord—over the throttle, the magneto, then doping the engine—but there was no part of me that had instructed them or given them the signals; my mind wasn't part of the loop, and the fear was metallic and sour in my mouth, rancid in my armpits and I could feel sweat running down my back and face. I wanted to shout ‘Stop!' but I couldn't, I was trapped in the cockpit and I could see the airman giving me the thumbs up…turn the dial…thumbs up again for disconnect—they were standing by the wings to guide me out.
Oh, Jesus
…

I managed to get into the air but it was ham-fisted and I couldn't seem to connect with the plane. She was like an alien thing, jerking and bucketing all over the place as I over-corrected and twice nearly sent her into a spin. Instructions came over the R/T, but I couldn't follow them. I concentrated on staying with the others, but I could barely keep level. I couldn't
feel
her… My beautiful Spitfire was just an unresponsive lump of metal.