Lover (7 page)

Frank looked at me for a long time without speaking. Then he said, ‘We could just as easily be sitting in a café in Berlin, drinking coffee and eating
kuchen
, and having this conversation.'

‘It couldn't be worse than this.' I prodded the bun.

‘That's true. But I didn't mean that. I meant we'd be German.'

‘But we're not German, we're British.'

‘Yes, but that's just chance, isn't it?'

‘I don't know. I suppose so. But we're different…it's the way they're trained, isn't it? To think that the only good race is the German one.'

‘Yes, but we'd think that, too, don't you see?'

‘No we—' I was about to say that we couldn't possibly think that, but I stopped because I realised he was right.

‘We would, you know. We'd think we were in the right. And of course
we
are, it's just that everyone seems to have swallowed this business about how we're the ones fighting against injustice and oppression, and standing up for peace and democracy, but when you look at our position in India, you wonder how we have the nerve. Our history is all aggression in the name of Empire. Same as the French or Dutch, or even Belgium, taking possessions overseas—and now we're saying the Germans can't do it because it's in Europe. We wouldn't care if it was Africa; look at Somaliland.'

‘That was the Italians.'

He shrugged. ‘It's no different.'

‘Yes, but Europe's different, and as for the Empire, it's… well, it's ours.'

‘Only because we conquered it.'

‘But that doesn't make the Germans right, Frank.'

‘I know it doesn't, but…' Frank sighed. ‘It's just…you wonder what it's all
for
. All that King and Country stuff went out in the last war.'

‘But we can't just let Hitler invade.'

‘Of course not, but… I just wish I felt a bit clearer about things, that's all.'

‘You mean, why you're fighting?'

‘Yes.'

‘Well?'

‘To get it over with, I suppose.'

‘Frank… What happens if, well, if we don't? Win, I mean.'

He sighed. ‘I don't know.'

‘I suppose I shouldn't even be saying that. I haven't said it to anyone else.'

‘Good. Best keep it to yourself.' He squeezed my hand. ‘We'll get through it, somehow.'

When he said that I thought, yes, but
what then
? I didn't say it, though—even thinking about the future seems a waste of time. All the same, it was an odd conversation, because Frank is usually so certain about things—the way men are, I suppose. It made me feel uneasy all the way home, although I couldn't quite put my finger on why. But that's nothing new; I don't seem to be sure about
anything
these days. The things Frank said about England, and the Empire—I've never heard him talk like that, and, to be honest, I've never really thought about it much.

The whole business made me feel as if I'd done something wrong. Talking to Frank often has that effect on me. I'm sure he doesn't mean it to, but it does. I suppose it's because he's a couple of years older than me, and better educated, but I can't just take on his opinions and pretend that's what I think, too, even if I don't have opinions of my own. I want to look at life through
my
eyes, not his.

We did talk about other things after that—although not about us, thank heaven—and then he said he was travelling to Gloucester to see his parents and would see me at the weekend, before he ‘goes for a soldier,' as he put it. I meekly agreed to this arrangement and allowed myself to be kissed. Halfway through I was appalled to discover myself thinking about Mr Bridges. I've christened him B—if I am going to think about him, which appears to be the case,
Mr Bridges
is far too cumbersome.

I came back to earth when Frank broke off with a peculiar look on his face and said, ‘Lucy, are you all right?'

I gazed at him with what I hoped was a suitably spooney expression, so he shouldn't realise… Oh, I'm horrible, horrible,
horrible
! Feelings of guilt and also—most unfairly—irritation with Frank, meant that I allowed him to carry on kissing me for far longer than usual to make up for it, then scuttled off to catch my train before anything more could be said.

The station was packed, as usual, and everyone looked weary and dispirited. I wondered how long we can go on in this state. Frank is certainly right about getting it over. The thought of spending all winter like this fills me with despair, but what choice do we have?

When I got back, Minnie told us about a girl at her office who went to the pictures and came back to find the back blown off the house. Mums was very upset by this, saying that people shouldn't go out. When I pointed out that the girl was safer at the cinema than she would have been at home, she didn't reply, but there was a lot of sighing and fussing and slamming about of tea-things. Being so nervous makes her quite impossible.

I said to Minnie afterwards, when we were washing up, ‘You shouldn't tell her things like that, you know what it does to her.'

Minnie said she was sorry, and then she said, ‘I suppose it's because I feel we ought to talk to her more—she's at home so much by herself.'

‘She goes out to the shops, and she's always popping into the neighbours' for tea.'

‘Not any more. It takes her an age to work up the courage just to open the door and get outside, even for shopping, and then she just rushes there and back as fast as she can. She used to stop and talk to everyone, but now she doesn't even want to do that, in case there's a raid, or a gas attack, or—'

‘When did she tell you all this?'

‘Last week. When we had that really bad one, she suddenly blurted it all out. She's ashamed of it, Lucy, that's the awful thing. I know it was the wrong thing to tell her, about that girl at work—I could have bitten my tongue—but I feel I've got to say
something
, just…you know…so she knows we're all right, and… I don't know. To be friendly, and just…just for the sake of talking, really.'

‘Perhaps we should get the doctor to give her something.'

‘She won't go.'

‘Have you mentioned this to Dad?'

Minnie shook her head. ‘He'd only worry. Anyway, I think he sort of knows, but there's nothing he can do, and that makes it worse, because he can't
protect
her.'

‘I suppose so.'

I could see what Minnie meant, and resolved to spend more time with Mums and talk to her, if I can bear it. I should have realised how bad her nerves are. The combination of that, and feeling hateful for being bored by Frank's lovemaking, made me not want to talk to anybody, so when we heard the siren I retreated straight under the kitchen table and stayed there with one of Mums's Ethel M. Dells. Terribly old-fashioned, but soothing. I realised, about twenty pages in, that I'd read it before, although not very carefully as I don't have the foggiest idea of what happens next. Dad lifted the tablecloth to see what I was reading, then made a face and said, ‘Slop.' Which it undoubtedly is, but I don't care, because it takes my mind off everything else. It was quiet by midnight, so I went upstairs, though I didn't undress until the All-Clear went at three. Then I had four hours of utterly
blissful
sleep.

I tried to be very brisk and efficient all morning, with no flirting (well, not much, anyway). B was in the other office, but came in from time to time with requests for me to make tea and type things. The latter I found a little odd as he has his own secretary, Miss Dale, but she's terribly old, poor thing—nearly retiring—so perhaps she can't manage all of the work. Miss H came up a couple of times as well, ‘to see how you're doing,' or—far more likely—to make sure there was no interdepartmental poodlefaking. B contrived to be out of sight on both occasions, which obviously satisfied Miss H, because he told me later that he has secured me ‘on permanent loan' for one day every week. I thought this made me sound like a library book, and—very much to my surprise—heard myself saying so out loud. B laughed a great deal and invited me to have a cup of tea with him after work. I said yes, but spent the rest of the day telling myself that
he is married
and that
I must not be taken in by him
. These strictures were only moderately successful—even invoking Mums couldn't stop me looking forward to it, and as for Frank, well…here's a dreadful confession: I realised on the way home that I hadn't given him so much as a thought the entire day.

The other girls will be green when they find out. About my one day a week, that is. I shan't tell them about the tea, and certainly not about the kiss afterwards. We were walking to the station and suddenly—I'm really not sure how this happened— found ourselves in a doorway. He said, ‘I know I shouldn't, but you're so lovely I can't resist you,' and pulled me into his arms and kissed me. I tried to push him away—well, a little bit—but found myself…how to put this? Responding.
Wriggling
, that's Frank's word for it. But it
was
all very discreet, and I don't think that people notice or mind these things so much, nowadays. I wondered afterwards if this was due to moral laxity or because they have other things on their minds, like getting home before the raids start, and decided it must be the latter.

I know I should have been offended by B's behaviour, but it seemed such a little thing, really, in spite of his wife. My goodness, though! I thought I knew what kissing was, at least, but
that
was a revelation. Quite different from Frank. I suppose I am turning into the most awful tart, but B made me lose my head completely, and I suddenly understood what Frank had been talking about. And it does seem unimportant, when you think that we might not be here tomorrow. Mums wouldn't think it unimportant, though, and the way she was looking at me this evening made me think she
knew
, somehow. But in a way, these restrictions only go to make it more exciting…what a dreadful thought! It's all very odd. Nothing makes sense or matters much any more, and I don't seem to care what happens to me.

I spent the rest of the evening concentrating jolly hard on Ethel M. Dell, and continued under the table when the raid started.

M
y Tommy's had his heart broken, poor lamb. I went over to see him this morning and he was sitting on the kerb with this pretty curly-headed little thing, and holding a telephone. Not working, of course, because it wasn't attached, but it wasn't cracked or anything.

I said, ‘Where did you get that?'

‘Bomb site.'

‘You shouldn't just take things, you know.'

‘Everyone does.'

‘I know, but it's naughty. Stealing.'

‘But nobody wanted it, Auntie Rene.'

‘Well, you don't know that.'

‘They didn't! They'd have taken it, wouldn't they?'

‘Maybe, but you shouldn't do it.'

I couldn't really blame him; it's a big temptation, stuff left lying about. I suppose it's not as if he'd broken into a bombed house or something, or gone hunting round the West End for bombed shops with wristwatches and fur coats and what-have-you, but still… And he's right, everyone's at it, wardens and rescue men and firemen, and if they just pick up a packet of tea or a pipe, it's a bit much to call that
looting
, but all the same, I don't want him turning into a little thief.

I said, ‘Well, now you've got it, what are you going to do with it?'

‘It's a present.'

‘Who's it for?'

‘Her,' he whispers, and points at the girl, all shy.

I said to her, ‘Is he your boyfriend, then?' and this little madam tosses her head, and says, ‘Oh, no, not
him
,' and she grabs hold of the telephone and starts dialling up a number. When I ask what she's doing, she says, ‘I'm telephoning my boyfriend.' Heaven knows where she picked that up—all of seven years old!

I said to her, ‘Why are you doing that?'

‘Oh,' she says, ‘I'm making a date with him.' Makes you wonder what the world's coming to, doesn't it, kiddies growing up so quick. A few years' time and she'll be a proper caution.

Tommy snatched the phone. ‘You don't even know how to do it. You're using it all wrong.'

‘No, I'm not. I know how to do it. You're
silly
.' And she's jumped up and gone flouncing off down the road.

I said, ‘Oh, dear. Do you like her a lot?'

‘I don't like her
at all
. She's a
pig
. Anyway, I don't want to play with girls. They can't even do wars.'

‘Why can't they?'

‘Because the war's not for
girls
.' Very scornful. ‘It's only for
boys
. Girls are stupid.'