Daughters of Cornwall Page 10

  ‘Tea?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes please.’

  He brought the tea to the bed and I inched over, making space to lie together.

  ‘I am sorry about yesterday. I haven’t slept for a couple of days. I must be a terrible inconvenience to you. Not to say embarrassment.’

  ‘What are friends for?’

  We sipped our tea in silence.

  ‘It’s very quiet up here,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, we are well above the traffic.’

  Mundane conversation. Wonderfully normal. No strain between us.

  There was a knock on the door.

  ‘Don’t worry. It’s Elsie,’ I said. I raised my voice slightly, ‘Elsie, is that you?’

  ‘Yes, darling. How are you?’ She tried the handle but I had locked it last night.

  ‘I still don’t feel well.’

  ‘Oh dear. Have you been sick?’

  ‘Yes,’ I lied. ‘Most of the night. Can you let the office know I won’t be in today?’

  ‘Of course, I will,’ Elsie replied. ‘Is there anything you would like me to bring home tonight?’

  ‘No thank you, dear. I have everything I need.’ I looked at Bertie.

  ‘Well, it is Friday,’ she went on. ‘You’ve got the whole weekend to recover. I may not be in until late. George has invited me out for an early supper.’

  ‘Who’s George?’ whispered Bertie.

  I put my finger to his lips. ‘Oh, that sounds nice,’ I told her. ‘Have a good time.’

  ‘I will. Toodle-oo.’

  ‘Bye, darling.’

  Bertie and I kept quite still and quiet until we heard Elsie’s footsteps fade away, down the stairs and out of the building.

  ‘You lie very well,’ Bertie said. ‘You would make a very good secret agent. And who is George?’

  ‘He’s a Westminster reporter. He mixes with the prime minister and his Cabinet. Gets all the inside information. He’s full of himself. Elsie has been playing hard to get.’

  ‘Not hard enough by the sounds.’ He put his tea cup on the floor by the bed and stretched out. ‘I’m feeling very sleepy again.’

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘Here. Lie on my arm and I’ll keep you warm.’

  We lay in our innocent embrace and slept until the early afternoon.

  ‘God I’m hungry,’ Bertie said when he woke up. ‘What do you fancy for dinner?’

  ‘You mean go out?’ I asked worriedly. It was all very well him being in my room, but it was a very different thing to be seen sneaking out of the building in daylight.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, clearly relaxed about the situation. He rubbed his chin. ‘I need a shave and a bath first though.’

  ‘The only bath is on the next floor and we are only allowed to use it once a week.’

  He laughed. ‘Worse than being in the trenches! What do you do?’

  ‘I boil a kettle in the sink and have a wash.’

  ‘Right then, that is what we’ll do. You first.’

  I hesitated.

  ‘I promise I won’t look.’

  ‘It’s not that …’ I was embarrassed.

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘Yes. It is.’

  ‘You can trust me. And remember, I do have a sister so I know how to behave.’

  I did trust him but nonetheless I washed very quickly and as covertly as possible. I wished I could have washed my hair too, but a lick of a hot flannel does wonders.

  I dried myself and got dressed. ‘OK. The coast is clear.’

  He rolled over to face me. ‘That was quick. You must teach my sister how to do that.’

  ‘I’ve put the kettle on for you. I hope there is enough.’

  I turned my chair from its position by the window and faced it towards the blank wall.

  I settled down and closed my eyes, enjoying the sound of the water splashing in the sink and then the scrape of a razor over his chin. I had never seen a man shave and listening to it was curiously exciting.

  ‘Pass me my kitbag, would you?’ he asked.

  It was close enough for me to reach still sitting. I grabbed it and held it behind me without turning my head.

  ‘Thank you.’

  I could hear him rummaging in the bag and shaking out what sounded like clean clothes.

  ‘You may turn around. I am respectable.’

  He looked to me like the most handsome man in the world. Tanned face. Clean-shaven. White teeth. Hair brushed back and shining. His shirt was crumpled but clean. ‘How do I look?’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘Do I smell a bit better?’

  ‘Yes. What is that?’

  ‘Macassar oil for my hair. You like it?’

  I nodded.

  ‘What perfume do you like to wear?’ he asked, putting on his tie.

  ‘I have never worn it. Pears soap is the closest I can get.’

  ‘One day, I shall buy you a bottle. For your birthday. When is your birthday?’

  ‘March.’

  ‘Mine’s February. Both spring babies. That must be lucky.’

  I laughed. ‘I don’t believe in luck.’

  ‘Oh, but you must! Even if it doesn’t exist, you must believe, in case it does. Do you see what I mean?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  His tie done, he pulled up his braces and put on his jacket. ‘Come on. I’m taking you to a place I know.’

  We went to a small supper club just off Leicester Square. We ate lamb and drank champagne. We danced to the music of a small band. Several people, seeing he was in uniform, came and thanked him for the work he was doing. At first he was polite and thanked them, but I could tell that it began to wear him down.

  I interrupted the final interloper by touching Bertie’s arm and saying, ‘I am so sorry but we must go now.’

  Out on the street, Bertie took my arm. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I could tell it was annoying you.’

  ‘I try not to be rude but if I told them the truth. Of what it was like out there. They wouldn’t sleep.’

  I looked up at him. ‘You woke up shouting in the night.’

  He patted his pockets. ‘Do you have any cigarettes?’

  I accepted his change of subject. ‘No, but we can get some at the kiosk in the station.’

  It was the first time I had seen him smoke. It wasn’t going to be the last.

  It seemed natural for him to come home with me and even more natural as we undressed each other and got into bed. ‘I have never done this before,’ I whispered, afraid.

  He said nothing, but the look of affection he gave me was everything.

  When it hurt me I stayed silent. Our eyes locked. Our bodies joined. I fell in love.

  Chapter Eleven

  Bertie, London

  31 July 1916

  I had found a woman who had got into my bloodstream. Making love to her was quite different to the women I’d met before. She didn’t tease, go coy, tempt. Her underwear was not frivolous. Her beauty regime was simple. No pots of powder and paint. Just her red lipstick. I asked her once why she wore it and she answered, ‘I like it.’ And because she did, I did. She wore it with uncalculated bravura. It was as much her as was her hair. Shoulder-length, wavy, always secured in a neat bun at the nape of her neck. I would lie in bed and watch her brush it in the morning, winding it through her fingers, pinning it. There was nothing about her that didn’t fascinate me. She wanted nothing from me. Not money. Not promises. She just wanted to be with me as I did with her.

  She shut from my mind the trenches, the blood and mud, the lost limbs, the screams, the terror, and filled me with the balm of simplicity. When we were together there was nothing else in the world. No France, no war, no Cornwall, no family. Just us, together in her tiny room in a boarding house on Fleet Street. It was what glued me back together. I dared to dream I had a future.

  I did not ever want to leave that room or end our night-time forays to find food in quiet cafés, to dance on tiny dance floors, and then th
e following morning to watch her dress and go to work while I lay in bed. But all things come to an end.

  ‘Dearest?’ I asked from the bed where I lay watching her pull her stockings on.

  ‘Yes?’ She smiled at me through her small mirror.

  ‘I have to go to Cornwall. To see my parents.’

  She fastened her last suspender and turned to look at me. ‘Of course you must.’

  ‘I would rather stay here. You know that?’

  ‘Yes.’ She sat on the bed and put her hand on mine. ‘But you’ll come back.’ It wasn’t a question.

  ‘I will. The thing is.’ I rubbed my eyes, not wanting to tell her. ‘From Cornwall I have to go straight to Lichfield.’

  ‘Lichfield. Why?’

  ‘Officer training.’

  She stood up and reached for her skirt. ‘Oh. How long will that take?’

  ‘Three or four weeks.’

  ‘I see.’ She did the final button on her skirt then began on her blouse. ‘And will I see you before you go back to France?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  She tucked her blouse into her skirt and found her jacket. ‘When will you be going to Cornwall?’

  ‘Tonight.’

  ‘Right.’ She did her jacket up and pulled it down to straighten any creases. ‘Will you be here when I get back from work?’

  ‘No.’

  She picked up her hairbrush and threw it at me. ‘You bastard!’

  I leapt out of bed and tried to take her in my arms but she fought back. ‘Don’t touch me. What a fool I have been. I never want to see you again.’ She pushed past me and ran to the door. ‘Never!’

  She opened the door and almost knocked over a stout and fearful-looking woman who was standing on the landing. Clearly the landlady we had been avoiding. She took in the scene before her. A furious Clara and a naked me.

  Hoisting her considerable bosom in front of her, she attacked. ‘Miss Carter! I am disappointed in you! I shall have to ask you to leave this establishment, at once. You know the rules. No. Men. You must pack immediately and be gone, with your friend –’ she gave me a filthy look – ‘in the next hour, and before you ask, I will not be refunding the week’s rent. I thought I had made myself clear when you took the room. I will not tolerate shouting, drunkenness or immoral behaviour.’ She finished on a crescendo, ‘Do you understand me?’

  Clara slammed the door in her face and burst into tears. I went to her. ‘I’m so sorry.’ I pulled her to me and held her to my chest, hoping her angry sobs would subside, stroking her hair and thinking hard.

  ‘I will go today and find us somewhere. I promise.’

  She shrugged me off. ‘I have to go to work.’

  ‘I know, but I’ll pack up our things and find us a place by tonight.’

  ‘You have to go to Cornwall.’

  ‘I shall telegram my parents and pick you up from work. This is my fault and I shall work something out.’

  It didn’t take me long to pack up. The landlady, arms folded, stood at the bottom of the stairs and watched as I carried my bag and Clara’s few belongings out, before banging the front door shut behind me.

  It was a warm July day, too warm. The air was heavy with a promising storm. I hailed a taxi and gave the driver the address of my old friend Jimmy’s bank.

  ‘Bolitho, old man, what a lovely surprise. What brings you here?’

  ‘I need your help, Jimmy. I am in a bit of a fix.’

  Jimmy had always been the kindest of men and listened to my story without judgement.

  ‘Well, you are in a pickle,’ he said. ‘This calls for a Scotch.’

  I took it gladly.

  ‘Now then, let me see what I can do.’

  By lunchtime he had secured a bedsit in Ealing, west London. ‘Best I can do, old boy.’

  ‘I can’t thank you enough,’ I said in all honesty.

  His family rented many properties around London and this one was a large three-storey Victorian house, not far from Ealing Broadway, which had been split into six bedsits. Two on each floor.

  ‘It’ll be a bit of a commute for Miss Carter, but it’s on a good bus route.’

  He described the flat. One large room, ground floor, shared bathroom and garden. ‘You’re lucky. It’s recently been vacated. Might need a lick of paint.’

  ‘Jimmy, you have saved us.’

  ‘My pleasure.’ He beamed. ‘We can’t have Miss Carter shamed and homeless.’ He gave me a questioning glance. ‘Hope you’ll do the right thing by her, old boy. I am doing this for her as much as you, you know.’

  ‘She is everything to me and I shall never let her down.’

  ‘Good show. Just what I feel for old Marianne. Married life is to be recommended.’

  We stood up and shook hands. ‘Thank you again,’ I said. ‘You know that if ever there is anything I can do for you …’

  He prodded my chest. ‘Just make her happy.’

  ‘I will.’

  The earlier storm had passed, leaving the pavements wet and London grey. I asked the cabby to drop me at the small café across the road from the Evening News building. A table in the window was free so I stationed myself there and ordered a cheese sandwich and a pot of tea, settling our belongings under the table. I tried to imagine how Clara was feeling.

  When she eventually came out of the office, she looked anxious and tired. I wondered whether that was from a hard day in the office, or was she getting cold feet? In reality we didn’t know each other very well and perhaps I had been too bombastic? It was my fault she was homeless and I had jumped in telling her I would find her somewhere to live.

  She was waiting for a gap in the traffic and biting her lip.

  I scrabbled out from behind the table and ran onto the street. ‘Clara,’ I waved. ‘Over here.’

  The house in Ealing was red brick, tall and welcoming. The key was under the flower pot as Jimmy had described. The front door opened onto a wide hallway that was dark and smelt of two-day-old cabbage.

  To the left there was a staircase and straight ahead of us was a door numbered 1A. Our new home.

  I gripped Clara’s hand firmly, nodding towards the door. ‘That’s us.’ I gave her no chance to hesitate.

  ‘Here we go.’ I warmed my voice with confidence then gave her back her hand, reached for the key in my pocket and fumbled with the lock. Finally, I pushed the door open.

  Clara’s hands flew to her face and for the second time that day she burst into tears.

  The evening sun had banished the rain clouds and the room was bathed in late sunshine. ‘Is it OK?’ I asked nervously.

  ‘It’s wonderful.’ She began to smile through her tears, ‘Look!’ She walked quickly across the room, to the French windows. ‘A garden!’

  She tried the handles. ‘Do you have another key?’

  ‘I do.’ I was so happy that she was happy. ‘Let me try?’

  As the doors swung open, the warm afternoon sun fell into the room, bringing with it the scent of roses that lined an uneven, slabbed path to a washing line.

  Clara slid her arm around my waist. ‘It’s wonderful.’

  I watched as she investigated every corner of the small, scruffy patch. ‘Look, a perfect place to grow vegetables!’ She swung into my arms. ‘What do you like? Potatoes? Broad beans? Spinach? Lettuce?’

  I hugged her to me. ‘Everything. I like everything.’

  She didn’t acknowledge my answer because she had spotted a cracked coal bunker and a dwindled log store. ‘Do you think we have a fireplace in the flat? No more icy winters?’ Her joy was infectious. ‘And, look at that apple tree!’ She pointed to a gnarled tree laden with ripening fruit. ‘They look good too.’

  ‘Well you are the expert,’ I said.

  ‘Expert?’ She looked at me, puzzled.

  ‘Yes. But it’s only one tree, not the hundreds you are used to.’

  ‘I don’t follow,’ she said, her eyebrows softly knitted.

  ‘I mean it will
remind you of home. Kent. In a good way, I hope.’

  Her face cleared and a faint blush climbed into her cheeks. ‘Oh yes. My father’s farm, you mean.’

  She turned away from me and I could see her mood had changed.

  ‘Darling, have I upset you?’ I asked. ‘That was very clumsy of me. Bringing up old memories. Forgive me.’

  ‘No no. It just surprised me that you remembered.’ She turned back to me and smiled. ‘Sorry. Just the shock, I suppose.’

  From an open upstairs window someone was playing ‘Alexander’s Ragtime Band’ on a gramophone.

  Clara grinned. ‘Would you care to dance?’

  ‘I’m not too hot at the modern dancing.’

  ‘Can you do the cakewalk? I’ll teach you.’

  I was hopeless, but she looked so beautiful dancing around that tiny garden, her long slender legs jigging in time to the music, that I felt I was the happiest man alive. When the music finished we were both breathless, but she grabbed my arm and dragged me back to the house, pointing out a mint bed and a honeysuckle on our way, then, ‘Come on, we need to explore our little home. I want to find the fireplace, and the kitchen.’

  The kitchenette was behind a curtain but had a full-sized gas oven, a large sink and a hot-water geyser. Clara was delighted. ‘I can make you a roast Sunday lunch. And bake cakes. And look, a cold shelf in the larder! No more putting the milk out on a cold windowsill.’

  She was like a child in a toy shop.

  I found the fireplace behind an old, embroidered firescreen. We pulled up the two small but comfortable armchairs and she flopped down, her hands to her chest with joy. ‘I shall sit here and sew, or read, and toast crumpets.’ She gave me a smile that melted my heart. ‘And write my letters to you.’

  ‘I shall picture you just as you are. Your hair loose from the dancing, and your eyes so dark and bright.’

  ‘Stop it,’ she said, laughing at my teasing.

  ‘And I will come home to you,’ I said.

  She looked at me hesitantly, ‘Is this our home?’

  ‘Do you want it to be?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Clara,’ I needed to know something, ‘will you wait for me? After the war? We have no idea how long that will be, but if—’

  ‘Yes,’ she said.