Darkest Before Dawn (42 page)

The bus drew in to the pavement and Evie roused herself from her abstraction; this was her stop, and a couple of her friends were hopping down from the platform and joining the stream of girls heading for the factory. ‘Wait for me! Jeannie, Phyllis, wait for me!' Evie shrieked, leaping off the bus and clouting another passenger with her handbag as she did so. ‘Sorry, missus, but I'm trying to catch up with me mates . . . oh, Miss Pinner, I'm ever so sorry. I didn't realise it were you.'

Miss Pinner tightened her lips then opened her mouth as if to speak, but Evie did not wait for the telling-off she knew would be coming. Hefty Miss Pinner was a supervisor, and not a popular one either. But we aren't in work now, Evie thought defiantly, panting up to a group of her friends. She addressed them a trifle breathlessly. ‘Girls, you'll never guess what's going to happen on 21st November! My sister Angie is getting married . . . that'll only leave me, in my whole family, still unwed.'

Phyllis and Jeannie turned and Phyllis smiled down at her. ‘Oh, poor little Evie,' she said mockingly. ‘Past fourteen an' norra feller in sight. Well, I always did say you was a born spinster. Though there is a feller, isn't there? Someone in the army what you write letters to? I've seen you, scribbling away in your dinner hour.'

‘I don't know nothing about that feller, but I do know she were thick as thieves wi' Percy Baldwin when they were kids,' Jeannie said. She lived in the next court along from Cavendish and had known both the Baldwins and Evie herself for some time. ‘You'll have to ask young Percy to make an honest woman of you, queen.'

Evie snorted. ‘Some chance,' she said scornfully. ‘Why, he's a perishin' spiv, sellin' stuff on street corners, talkin' out of the corner of his mouth . . . you wouldn't get me goin' steady with him if he were the richest, handsomest feller in the world. And as for Toby – he's a POW in Malaya, or at least I think he is, because they can't write back, you know, the horrible Japs won't let them. We had a couple of cards, just letting us know that he was in Changi, but we've had nothing since. And anyway, he's Seraphina's feller really.'

They had entered the factory and were queuing up to clock on. Phyllis turned to stare at her. ‘Seraphina's feller? But you said he was in North Africa flying with the RAF.'

Evie giggled. ‘Sorry, sorry. I mean Toby
was
Seraphina's feller, before she married Roger. But sometimes I get the feeling that she still likes Toby very much and I wonder if – if perhaps she wishes she'd married him and not Roger.'

‘She's probably just sorry for him, because from what I've heard, being a POW can't be much fun,' Phyllis said wisely. ‘But it's hard on a wife, being separated from her husband, perhaps for years.' She looked seriously across at Evie as they reached the head of the queue. ‘You don't want to say things like that, you know, kid. I'm not married and perhaps I won't ever be, norrif my Reggie gets killed, but I wouldn't like to think that just writin' to an old flame might make folk think I didn't care about Reggie no more.'

Evie moved up, clocked in, then trotted along behind her friends, saying remorsefully, ‘Yes, you're right, Phyllis. I'm sorry – I spoke without thinking. I expect poor Fee misses Roger like crazy but can't talk about him to us, because we don't really know him. So she talks about Toby, because I can't remember a time when he wasn't in and out of our lives. But oh, how I wish he – I mean Toby – could get in touch with us, just so we knew that he was still all right.'

Jeannie and Phyllis were both older than Evie; Jeannie was seventeen and Phyllis nineteen, and now they exchanged speaking looks. Evie, glancing from one face to the other as they approached their workbench, saw Phyllis's eyebrows rise and Jeannie give a tiny nod. Then Phyllis spoke. ‘Evie, we weren't going to say anything to you, but what you said just now – about getting in touch, I mean – has changed our minds. After work today, Jeannie and I are going to see a Mrs Amelia Smith. She's a sort of gypsy . . . well, no, p'raps that's not quite the right word. She calls herself a psychic and she claims to be able to get in touch both with people who have passed over, as she calls it, and with folk who are far away. Jeannie wants to know how her brother Alf is getting along – he's in North Africa, like your sister's hubby – and I want to know about Reggie. Oh, I know I do get letters from Italy, but they're pretty rare – few and far between I should say – so we thought we'd go along and see if there's anything this woman can tell us. Would you like to come?'

Evie took the cover off her big commercial sewing machine, then looked up at her friends. ‘I'll come, but you'd better know straight off that I'm not sure I should,' she said frankly. ‘I remember, when Dad was killed, that someone suggested Mam should try to get in touch with him through a . . . medium, I think she called herself. Mam was absolutely furious. She said that Dad was in heaven and the woman was nothing but a nasty impostor. Still, this is a bit different, I suppose. Yes, I'll come.'

When work had finished for the day, the three girls set off for the address Phyllis had been given. Evie had half expected to be ushered into a witch's hovel, complete with black cat, a cauldron over the fire and a woman in a pointy hat. Instead, the door of a neat, terraced house was opened by a fat, grey-haired woman with a face seamed with wrinkles and bright, dark eyes. The woman led them into a pleasant parlour, then took them, one by one, into a dimly lit kitchen. Phyllis went first, then Jeannie, and Evie went last. As she entered the kitchen, her heart began to bump violently and she considered saying that she had changed her mind, wanted no part of it. But that would have been cowardly, and besides, she was curious, so she followed Mrs Smith into the room and sat down on the chair indicated. Mrs Smith sat down opposite her and pulled into place between them a small stout table, upon which rested a crystal ball. She dusted the ball tenderly, then leaned forward and peered into its depths. ‘What is your young man's name? And where is he at present?' she asked, in a surprisingly matter-of-fact voice, but Evie immediately took exception to the question.

‘He's
not
my young man,' she said firmly. ‘He's just a friend, though a very good one. His name is Toby, and he's in Changi POW camp in Singapore.'

Mrs Smith leaned closer to her crystal ball, so close that Evie thought if it had been an ice cream cone, she could easily have licked it. ‘Changi, Changi, Changi,' the elderly woman said in a hoarse whisper. ‘Show me Toby, who is in Changi.'

Fifteen minutes later, the three girls left the small house, first dropping a donation in the small wooden box just inside the front door. Evie pushed her money through the slot with a certain reluctance, for she had not believed one word Mrs Smith had said. She had made Toby's life in Changi sound almost idyllic, with thick jungle surrounding the camp, and the men making pets of small monkeys and brightly coloured parrots which came within the wire fence. She had said the men were well fed, that they had a theatre and regular cinema shows and that the people of Singapore had taken them to their hearts and frequently passed them gifts. Evie remembered the card she had received from Toby when he had first entered Changi, upon the bottom of which he had written very faintly, in pencil:
Food scarce, conditions harsh
. After that, Evie had gone to visit Mrs Duffy and had read her card, the bottom line of which read, in equally faint pencil:
Everything poor but we'll survive
.

So Evie emerged on to Bostock Street certain that she had not heard a word of truth from Mrs Smith, and just as certain that Phyllis and Jeannie, so much older and wiser than she, would regard what had been said to them with equal scepticism. Instead, they had been tickled pink, and Evie speedily realised that this was because Mrs Smith had told them what they wanted to hear. According to her, Alfie had had a bad cold but was recovering well and would soon write to his family again. And Reggie was enjoying Italy, helping the peasants as they worked amongst the vines and keeping well clear of those German troops who still remained in the country.

They asked Evie what she had been told but Evie simply said, flatly, that Mrs Smith had not been able to get in touch with Toby. She knew that if she said she had not believed a word her friends would first try to persuade her that she was making a mistake, and then begin to grow annoyed.

Presently, the three girls parted and Evie hurried home to the flat over the shop, determined not to tell her mother where she had been. In fact, Martha did not question her. She looked up as Evie entered the kitchen and smiled, then swung open the oven door to reveal three empty plates within. ‘Poor old Evie, I guess you missed the bus and had to walk,' she said gaily. ‘You chose a good night to be late, actually, because we had a consignment from the Ministry of Food, which all had to be unpacked and sorted out, so we were late ourselves. I meant to make a pile of sandwiches but Mr Wilmslow said we had all worked hard and needed a hot meal of an evening, so he's gone down the road for some fish and chips.'

‘Fish and chips!' Evie said, joyfully, slinging her coat on to the peg. ‘Oh, I love fish and chips. Had a good day, Ma? I bet you told every soul who came into the shop that Angie's getting married, didn't you?'

‘I did,' Martha said, smiling.

Later that evening, when the fish and chips were no more than a memory, Evie decided that she would confide in her mother after all. It had occurred to her that if anyone could get in touch with Toby, it would be someone who knew him and loved him, not a total stranger, and she decided that if she emphasised her scepticism there would be no harm in telling Martha she had visited Mrs Smith. She had to wait until Mr Wilmslow had gone down to his bed in the stockroom, because she did not want to upset him by reminding him of his own loss, but fortunately he was tired and went to bed early.

Martha listened to her story seriously and without interruption, and she also seemed to think quite hard before making up her mind what to say. ‘You know I don't believe in trying to get in touch with the dead; it seems to me a wicked intrusion, even if it were possible, which I am sure it is not. But it's understandable, in time of war, that folks should want to get in touch with family or friends whose fate is uncertain. Of course it would be nice to believe what the old woman told you, but I agree with you: if Toby was going to get in touch with anyone by means of some sort of thought transference, then he wouldn't need an intermediary, he'd do it straight off with someone he loved and trusted.

‘Seraphina,' Evie breathed. ‘He'd get in touch with Seraphina, of course! I wonder if he's tried? If I wrote and told her, do you suppose that Seraphina would try to get in touch with him?'

‘No I don't,' Martha said, emphatically. ‘Seraphina's a married woman and knows her duty. Besides, though she and Toby were good friends when they were a great deal younger, they've grown apart; why else would she have married Roger?' She leaned over and stroked her daughter's cheek. ‘You're very fond of Toby and I'm sure he thinks of you as a younger sister. You've been so good, writing him letters, never letting him down, so if he gets in touch with anyone it ought to be you. When you go to bed tonight, say your prayers and explain to God that you are anxious about your friend and would like news of him. Then think about him, relive some happy time in your life and his, and perhaps, even if he can't get through to you, your pleasant memories will get through to him.'

Evie jumped to her feet, flew across to where Martha sat by the fire, and gave her a smacking kiss on the cheek. ‘Thank you, Ma, thank you, thank you,' she gabbled. ‘I'll do just as you say, and who knows? It might work!'

They were building a bridge, a railway bridge, of course, to cross a mighty river. Fortunately, it was not in flood, but even so, it was pretty deep in the middle. Toby was up to his waist in water, arms above his head, bearing the weight of one of the huge tree trunks which would presently be pulled into position on the piles which had been driven deep into the river bed during the previous days. On the bank, a great elephant trudged along, pulling a sort of trolley containing more tree trunks; a small Burmese perched up on the animal's neck shouted orders. Toby's arms ached unendurably and his body ached too, especially the half of him immersed in water, for though the day was hot and the humidity high, the water itself was cold. He glanced sideways at Miles, then at the sun, thanking heaven that it was at last beginning to descend towards the horizon. The ache in his arms was becoming unbearable; if he did not get some relief soon, he would be unable to sleep tonight, and sleep was essential, for when the next day dawned they would be back here, repeating the terrible task, until the bridge was complete.

The Japanese guard on the bank shouted an order as the last trunk was swung into position, and Toby lowered his arms, groaning at the pain which followed, but hurrying out of the water as fast as he could. The guard on duty was much hated for his sadistic practices – his nickname was Nero – and Toby tried to give him a wide berth, but he slipped on the muddy bank and felt the crack of a rifle butt on his shoulder before he was able to scramble to his feet and head back towards the Atap huts. The men had to constantly rebuild these flimsy edifices as they moved further along the route the railway was to follow.

They reached the hut and Toby collapsed on to his bamboo shelf, too tired to think about the rice which would presently be distributed. When it came, though, he ate his share eagerly, then asked Miles to take a look at his shoulder. Wounds could go septic easily out here, but the blow had not broken the skin, Miles reported, though there would be a magnificent black bruise there by morning. Satisfied on that score, Toby rolled on to his sleeping platform and immediately began to suffer from the cramps which always attacked him as soon as he relaxed.