Someone Special (59 page)

In the other bed, Bovver turned on his back and gave an enormous grunt, then opened an affronted eye. It swivelled round, registered that his companion was no longer in his bed, and closed crossly.

‘Whazza time?’ Bovver asked in a slurred, morning-after voice. ‘Snot time to get up, izzit?’

‘Dunno,’ Snip said. He collected his clothing and headed for the door. ‘Go back to sleep, you dozy bugger, your mam will call you when it’s time.’

‘Strue,’ Bovver mumbled into his pillow. ‘Ah, Gawd, it’s bloody Monday! Back to the bench!’

Snip laughed but left the room. The tall, narrow house didn’t have a bathroom but if it was as early as he suspected he could wash at the kitchen sink and dress down there too. He wouldn’t disturb anyone and could go straight out. He did a lot of walking now, exploring first the ruined, shattered streets of what had obviously been a beautiful city and then gradually going farther out into the country.

He creaked down the last few stairs and stole along the dark passageway which led to the kitchen. He opened the
door and it was deserted, the curtains still drawn across. The kitchen overlooked the tiny backyard, so Snip pulled the curtains back, glancing without curiosity at the yard with its cracked and weedy paving. You couldn’t blame the Bancrofts for the state of the place, they were all in work, but if Bovver had been interested he could have cut the weeds down or even swept the paving once in a while.

Still, it was none of his business, so Snip pumped himself some cold water and washed, still a hit-and-miss procedure with only one hand. When he felt he was clean enough, he dried himself on the roller towel and pulled on his shirt and trousers. He was standing by the back door about to open it and go out when the kitchen door opened.

‘Bless the boy, you near on gave me an ’eart attack,’ Mrs Bancroft said, coming briskly into the room. ‘Where’s you off to? What about your breakfast, then, eh? Too busy huntin’ for that job to bother wi’ food?’

Snip laughed dutifully. ‘I didn’t know what the time was,’ he said apologetically. ‘I thought I’d just have a stroll down to the docks, see what’s going on.’

They were going to rebuild Southampton, that stood to reason, so Snip had been casing the joint for a couple of days now. He could do a labouring job, he thought, provided no one expected him to build tiny rooms and go into them. But so far all the builders he had approached seemed quite capable of resisting the lure of a one-armed labourer.

‘It’s seven-thirty, you softie – didn’t you think to look at the wall clock in front of your nose? Is Benjamin awake yet?’

Snip glanced apologetically up at the clock over the stove. Why hadn’t he looked at it? Was he really going soft in the head? He grinned uneasily at Mrs Bancroft. ‘Too lazy to raise me eyes, I daresay,’ he said. ‘Bovver’s
gone back to sleep; want me to give him a shout?’

Bovver’s given name was Benjamin, but Snip had never heard anyone but his mother use it.

‘Would you, lad? I d be grateful; them stairs do me knees in, to tell the truth. Say down in ten minutes flat or he won’t get no grub.’

‘That’ll fetch him,’ Snip said, grinning. He went back upstairs two at a time, feeling a certain pride in his achievement. He had been in hospital so long and in such a poor state of health that at first the stairs had been as much of an obstacle for him as for his landlady, but now … he thundered on their bedroom door, then shot it open.

‘Your mam says downstairs in two ticks or no breakfast, Bovver,’ he said briskly. ‘I’m off. See you!’

He slammed the door on Bovver’s groan and descended the stairs again, then hurried along the passageway and into the kitchen. What a difference it made having Mrs Bancroft in it. She had opened the front of the fire and stoked it so that the flames were reflected on the ceiling and she was cooking something in the blackened frying pan, humming to herself. The clock ticked and a voice on the radio was assuring people that a bowl of hot vegetable soup and a couple of thick slices of bread were good for you and cheap.

‘Greens make you Get Up and Go,’ the speaker observed, clearly seeing no ambiguity in the remark, though Snip sniggered unkindly. And just where did that chap think people would get greens, anyway, in the spring of the year with another three months to go before the fields would begin to yield their bounty?

Mrs Bancroft snorted. ‘Greens!’ she said witheringly. ‘One cabbage there was per ten customers in Bonners. I never got a look in. Mind, I telled the old man that he could get hisself an allotment an’ welcome, but they’re scarce too. There’s a waiting list to grow your own, I
tell you, and who’ll be at the head of the list? Them wi’ big gardings awready, that’s who.’ She waddled over to the table and picked up a round of bread, then turned to Snip. ‘Want a bit, fried? Best I can do this morning’.’

‘Grand,’ Snip said, his mouth watering at the thought of fried bread. His obsessive, nagging urge to get out of the house was calming down, becoming a background noise now instead of a shriek in his ear. ‘Bovver’s on his way.’

Mrs Bancroft nodded placidly. The voice on the radio began to talk about food again, then it changed to religion, then to the housing shortage, then to foreign affairs and the Nuremberg trials. Snip sat at the table, scarcely fidgeting at all, eating his fried bread and drinking his tea, watching Mrs Bancroft as she moved around preparing the food.

He got an unexpected reward. Bovver came through, slouching, unwashed, hair all over the place. He paused by the table to chuck an envelope down in front of Snip.

‘One for you,’ he said. ‘Feller just delivered it as I was coming’ past. Gave me quite a turn, shootin’ it through the letter-box like that.’

He continued on his way to the sink and rinsed his face and hands, then returned to take his place opposite Snip at the table. ‘Who’s it from?’ he asked inquisitively. ‘Looks like a girl’s handwritin’.’

‘Yes, it’s from Nell,’ Snip said. But she couldn’t have received his letter already, could she? Suppose she was writing to tell him she was marrying someone else? Suppose this was goodbye? He could not read his fate with the curious eyes of Bovver on him, so he drained his cup and stood up. ‘Well, see you tonight, then.’

‘Hang on, it’s rainin’ out there; why not read it in the dry?’ Bovver said. ‘Look, if you want to be alone …’

‘It’s all right,’ Snip said quickly. He slit the envelope
open and pulled out the single sheet it contained, telling himself he would just look at it with his eyes unfocused and pretend it was nothing much, just a letter. He had quite a job to unfold it one-handed, but managed it at last and then, without meaning to, began to read it under his breath.

Dear Snip, I’m working at present but have weekends free, so if it’s all right I will be arriving in Southampton some time next Saturday. Perhaps you could arrange for me to stay at your lodgings just for the Saturday night? It will be good to talk over old times together. Much love, Nell

‘Well? Wha’s she say?’ Bovver’s loud voice broke the silence, though the wireless’s tinny crackle had continued to dispense information as he read. Snip felt a big grin spreading across his face. She was coming! No word of busy, or couldn’t, or why don’t you come here, just to say she was coming the very next weekend.

‘She’ll be here Saturday,’ he said, trying to sound matter of fact and failing dismally. He sounded like a kid at Christmas and much he cared – he felt like it, too. ‘She’ll stay the weekend. Can she stay over please, Mrs Bancroft? She’ll kip on the couch, anywhere.’

‘Is that your young lady? She can have Clem’s bed since he goes home, weekends,’ Mrs Bancroft said at once. ‘Only don’t you say nothin’ about it to ‘im or there’d be trouble.’

Clem was the Bancrofts’ regular lodger, a clerk in a shipping office. Mrs Bancroft revered him for his steady job and good salary, but he was engaged to a young lady who also worked in his office and he usually spent weekends with her parents in the country. His room was nice – he had a little desk, a wash-stand, an easy chair and a gas-fire – so Snip thought exultantly that Nell would be very comfortable.

‘I won’t say a word,’ he said at once. ‘I’ll just drop Nell a line, say I’ll meet the train. I’ve got some paper and envelopes in my room somewhere.’

‘I can’t feed her, mind,’ Mrs Bancroft said warningly. ‘I’d like to oblige, Snip, but we just ain’t got the grub. Still, you can take her to the British Restaurant and Sunday she’ll be goin’ home again, I suppose. If there’s a train, that is.’

‘I’ll ask her to bring her ration book,’ Snip said. ‘We’ll manage, Mrs Bancroft – and thanks ever so.’

He waited for every train the following Saturday, starting unbelievably early because he was scared of missing her. He put on his demob suit, polished his shoes, slicked his hair down with water and set off before breakfast, though he did allow Mrs Bancroft to give him a paper bag with sandwiches and a wrinkled apple in it.

He had been a bit afraid of the station, but it was all right when it came to the point because he walked around a lot and several times, when no trains were due, went out of the station and trudged the surrounding streets, filled with elation because she was coming, because very soon now his Nell would be here.

She didn’t know much about his arm; he hadn’t been able to write for a long time and had dictated cautious notes only, not wanting to say too much, scared of frightening her off. But the last letter he had written himself, every word, and despite having to take time over it – those ten lines had taken him days – he thought the writing had been reasonable. Considering it was written with his left hand.

He was growing clever as the days and the weeks passed; clever at doing things one-handed, at using his left hand for tasks once carried out by his right. He was beginning to see that he would conquer the loss of his arm and go through life scarcely noticing his lack, but he
was less sanguine about the claustrophobic terror which haunted him. But with Nell beside him, he had high hopes of conquering that too.

At noon he ate the breakfast Mrs Bancroft had given him, munching sandwiches of margarine and a scraping of honey. He bought a cup of tea from a man selling them from a small barrow, and the next train steamed in and something, some inner instinct, told him to get over there, because she was near, he was sure of it. He ran, jogging unevenly along the platform, and there she was, looking abstracted, even worried, getting down off the train with an overnight bag in one hand and a paper carrier in the other. He shouted, lit up with excitement and the pure pleasure of setting eyes on her again. She was so damned beautiful!

She heard him, looked round, saw him; he had always loved her smile, the way it lit her face, warmed her eyes. He fairly flew across the short distance which separated them, took her in his arms, went to swing her into the air … He had forgotten his arm. He swung her and couldn’t hold her. She fell and he fell with her, lurching against the stationary train, both of them embarrassed as hell, trying to get to their feet, to make a joke of it.

‘Snip, that was you, not me – you should take more water with it!’ She was laughing, patting his cheek as they struggled to their feet, she hadn’t so much as glanced at the empty sleeve. He reached for her, hugged her close, one-armed. Bent his head to kiss her and felt the wetness of tears on his cheeks. He was crying like a baby at the happiest moment of his life so far – she would despise him, be embarrassed by him, want to escape!

She put her face up and kissed where the tears had run, hugging him convulsively. She did not stir from his arm, even when he began to stammer an explanation … sorry, not used to it yet, a matter of time …

‘What’s only a matter of time? You getting used to
hugging women again?’ she asked teasingly. ‘I thought you did very well for … oh Snip, your arm, your poor arm!’

He had moved, to show her the empty sleeve. She was round-eyed, her lower lip trembling. She had obviously not had the remotest idea of the extent of his injury. Of course she could not have known because he had baulked at telling her, frightened it would make her decide not to bother with him after all. He had been wrong, he knew that now; Nell had a generous spirit, she would never desert a friend.

‘Sorry I didn’t tell you,’ Snip muttered, turning her, still within the circle of his arm, so that they could walk out of the station still linked. ‘It’s not an easy thing to put into words, especially in a letter. Besides, I wanted you to come for me, not because you were s-s-s …’

His voice stuttered into silence. She was sorry for him, she couldn’t hide it, the big dark blue eyes were brimming with unshed tears, her mouth drooped softly, all the joy gone from that expressive little face. But hadn’t he been pretty damned sorry for himself, when it had first happened? Wasn’t he still sorry for himself now, when all was said and done? He could scarcely blame her for pitying him … if only it wasn’t just that, if only there were some other feeling for him in her heart.

‘Oh darling Snip, of course I’m sorry for you! When I think of all the things we’ve done together, when I see you in my mind’s eye on the fair, nipping on and off the dodgems, sneaking a ride on a gondola, always so strong and sure. But you’ll be strong and sure again, I know you will!’

He started to speak and the words turned traitor on him; tears choked his voice because she was being kind, because he loved her so much and didn’t have the words to tell her. He turned away from her, ashamed, but she pulled him back to face her, gently but firmly.

‘Snip, don’t worry, don’t try to tell me about it. Let’s go back to your lodgings and I’ll leave my bag and then we can find a quiet spot where we can talk without being interrupted. Do you have plans? There must be some sort of rehabilitation for you, but I expect you’ve done all that. And just be thankful it’s an arm and not a leg; you can still run and jump and do all sorts, I’m sure.’

They left the station and meandered through the streets, back to his lodgings. After a while they reached a tiny café, under an archway, so small that it had only four tables. Nell tugged at his arm. ‘Couldn’t we go in there, and talk in the warm? It looks quite clean and pleasant.’