Birmingham Friends (23 page)

Mummy stared ahead of her as if hypnotized. Then she came to herself and without turning her head said, ‘No. Thank you.’

Dr Williamson cleared his throat. ‘He would have been proud to die in harness,’ he offered.

I showed him the door.

Gladys Peck was a pleasant, anxious woman who was perpetually grateful. Although she had to care for her five-year-old, Eric, and Lizzie who was not yet two, she seemed to think that because she had been sent to live with us in a house which resembled the one in which she had first gone into service, she ought in return to act as our maid. We took a lot of trouble to stop her.

But now Gladys came into her own.

‘What you need at a time like this,’ she declared, ‘is help.’ She plonked fair, curly-haired Lizzie down on the floor as if trying to root her to the ground. ‘Good job I’m here now, isn’t it?’

And for several days, with impressive capability, she completely took over the running of our house. While Lizzie slept in our wooden cot upstairs, she scrubbed floors. She settled Eric at the table with crayons, copies of the
Eagle
and
Beano
which he was too young to be able to read properly but enjoyed the pictures, and an old toffee tin full of William’s cars and soldiers. He was a quiet, pallid child with cropped, mousy hair. Gladys donned an apron, tied back her thin hair in a pink scarf and set to, humming and singing like someone who had finally found a purpose in life. Then she’d stop, tactfully, remembering that we didn’t have much to sing about. I didn’t mind. I liked to hear her. Mostly she sang hymns: ‘The Old Rugged Cross’ and ‘Great is Thy Faithfulness’, adding her own warbles and fragments of melody.

What was most striking was that Mummy let her do it all. She surrendered control of the house while we made arrangements, sitting in miserable silence in the sombre offices of funeral directors or in the sitting-room at home. She was like a person winded, unable to gather herself up to protest or move into action.

‘Gladys is wonderful, isn’t she?’ I ventured one day. Mummy was sitting with Lizzie on her lap, occupying the child with a string of coloured wooden beads. Her hair was scraped back and she looked exhausted.

‘She’s a great comfort,’ Mummy said, to my surprise. ‘Hearing her singing sometimes I feel . . .’ She trailed off, stroking the little girl’s curls and her soft, spongy limbs.

‘What?’ I asked softly. So far we had said almost nothing to each other about Daddy’s death. We had been to see him, hands across his chest, his face relaxed and strange to us. But the house felt as usual. He had been there so little when he was alive.

‘It’s as if she’s a kind of messenger,’ Mummy said.

‘From Daddy, you mean?’

‘No. I don’t believe that sort of thing. You know I don’t. I meant from God.’

‘I hope so,’ I said grimly. I got little else out of Mummy. We moved round one another, each guarding our own pain.

I wrote and told Livy about Daddy’s death and she wrote me a sweet note in reply, but her letters were still rare. If she was having leave from the navy, she was no longer taking it at home.

The war was turning: Paris had been liberated in August. But it all felt so sad and futile. Life was empty of the people I cared about. The one thing which warmed me at this time was that Lisa told me she was going to have Daisy baptized.

‘I wanted to ask you,’ she said shyly, ‘if you’d be her godmother?’

In the middle of all this came a telephone call from Douglas. Although I’d given him my address at Marjorie’s party he had never got in touch, and he had slipped again from the forefront of my mind though I had quite often noticed his name in the
Mail
. In a way I was relieved. I didn’t want my feelings complicated further.

My mother took the message. Would I meet him after work later that week, at Snow Hill Station?

Work was a distraction at that time, being able to go out and immerse myself in it. I didn’t feel like going out socially and making an effort with someone I barely knew, but I felt that telephoning him to refuse might prove even more awkward and would hurt his feelings.

I waited for him under the clock in Snow Hill Station as arranged, nervously tapping my umbrella against my legs. Above the cluster of people standing there, the huge hands of the clock jerked the minutes round. I was wishing like mad that I hadn’t agreed to meet him, that I could be at home, able to think quietly on my own. But as the big hand clicked over the twelve – seven o’clock – I saw Douglas come limping across the station forecourt, his camera over one shoulder, held close to his body. When he caught sight of me his smile lit his face with a warmth that lifted me.

‘Katie, my dear – I’m so sorry.’ He took my hand and his voice was the gentlest I’d ever heard it. I had left him a note at his office in Corporation Street, agreeing to meet him for a short time and telling him about Daddy. ‘You poor girl. You’ve had enough knocks already. I mean look at you – you’re a shadow of that bustling nurse who came along and swore at me.’

I smiled wryly. It was true. My clothes were hanging on me. I’d had to put a tuck in the waist of my blue uniform skirt and my face was pale, shadowed under the eyes, and too gaunt for my bone structure.

‘Oh, well’ – I made a Douglas-like quip – ‘I always did want to be a beanpole.’ Pointing at the camera, I said, ‘D’you take that everywhere with you?’

‘Yes, pretty much. Just in case.’ He looked at me, concerned. ‘I’ll bet you haven’t eaten yet. Come on, let’s find somewhere to go.’

The thought of intimate conversation across a table suddenly filled me with panic. ‘D’you know what I really feel like?’ I said quickly. ‘Fish and chips.’

Douglas laughed. ‘There was I thinking of something really sophisticated. Oh well – fish and chips, then. At least we don’t need our ration books for that.’

We crossed the busy station forecourt, both starting to talk at once and trailing off into embarrassed laughter.

‘You first,’ I said.

‘Look – ’ His handsome face grew serious and rather rueful. ‘I’m sorry for not looking you up before. I’ve thought a lot about you since I saw you. It was a bit of a failure of courage on my part, I’m afraid.’

I was disarmed by this admission. ‘I’m so glad you did get in touch. It’s very good to see you again.’ And I meant it, I had forgotten how attractive he was, with his combination of wit and vulnerability.

‘Your father – ’ Douglas turned to look at me. ‘It must have been a terrible blow to you. What happened?’

‘His heart gave out. Overwork, I suppose. He’s always had quite good health actually but he worked so hard, and since the war started he’s not let up at all.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ Douglas said again. As we stepped outside he laid a hand gently on my shoulder to guide me through the crowds at the door.

We carried our warm newspaper parcels, strolling down through what remained of the Bull Ring. It was a melancholy sight in the half light, quieter than it would ever have been in peacetime, the bombed shells of buildings round us filled with queer shadows. Droves of starlings circled the wreckage of St Martin’s, shrieking sadly.

A couple of boys appeared out of the gloom, tearing past us.

‘Peg-a-leg!’ they shouted at Douglas. ‘Cripple!’ They disappeared behind us.

‘D’you want to catch the bus?’ Douglas asked ruefully.

I felt embarrassed for him. ‘I was rather enjoying walking – that’s if it’s not difficult for you. Does it hurt to walk?’

‘Oh, no – no pain,’ he said, his sardonic voice back again. ‘I just look like an inebriated clown as soon as I set foot, that’s all. In present company I’d enjoy a walk too. That’s if you don’t mind being seen out with me?’

‘Of course I don’t mind. You mustn’t think that.’

‘I get a fair bit of what we’ve just heard.’ He jerked his thumb in the direction the boys had gone.

‘It must be ghastly.’

‘Oh, don’t you start!’ he protested cheerfully. ‘I can stand the abuse, but for heaven’s sake don’t pity me.’

‘OK. Subject closed.’

We cut up along Cheapside, climbing the steep slope up to Camp Hill. Douglas chatted about work, performing such comical impersonations of his colleagues that they came alive in front of me, and soon I was laughing as I’d begun to think I’d never laugh again. I felt warmed by the thick chips and crisp battered fish, and temporarily uplifted. It was a still evening, with the last waning light of summer. The factories throbbed on either side of us, their high grimy sides towering over us, half muffled by sandbags. A truck reversed out from a gate in front of us and roared off up the road.

‘“One has no great hope of Birmingham,”’ Douglas quoted lugubriously. ‘“I always say there is something direful in the sound.” ’

‘Who said that?’ I was still recovering from his last bout of clowning. ‘D’you always mimic people? You must get yourself into frightful trouble.’

‘Yes, I’m afraid I do. And in answer to your question it was Jane Austen.’

‘Well, it may have been, but it’s still nonsense,’ I argued. ‘Just listen to this place – all these people round us working away day and night. Up there and down under the ground. Listen – it’s as if the city’s alive. There must be more coming out of Birmingham for the war effort than anywhere else in the country.’

‘All right, all right. I didn’t say I agreed with her, did I? Can’t say I’d want to settle here for life, though.’

‘I wonder how much longer it’ll all be needed.’

‘I did a piece today on the Fire Guard, now they’re standing them all down. The Home Guard’ll be the next to go, I suppose.’

It was getting really dark as we walked down the Moseley Road. I shivered. Now we had both thrown away our greasy newspapers holding the food, it had created an awkwardness. We had nothing to do with our hands. Douglas walked with his clasped behind his back. I folded my arms, pulling my cardigan closer round me.

‘I should have brought a coat,’ I said. ‘I keep thinking it’s still summer.’

Pain washed through me suddenly. Angus. If Angus had been here we would be walking arm in arm, easy with each other, our knowledge of each other so long, deep and familiar. For a moment I felt insanely angry with Douglas for being who he was, for lurching along beside me and for not being Angus. I was bewildered. My moods seemed to switch so quickly.

I was silent for so long that Douglas said, ‘Is there anything wrong?’

‘It’s been a very difficult week,’ I said in a tight voice. ‘As you can imagine.’

‘Oh Lord, I’m so sorry. How clumsy of me.’ He sounded quite distressed. ‘You seemed in such good form back there that I’d almost forgotten. Were you very close to your father?’

I sighed. ‘No. Not really. Only – it’s been different recently. Since I started working on the district. We worked in the same area you see and I sometimes met him. It was the first time we’ve found anything in common. He was the sort of person who was happiest and most himself when he was working. We all used to feel terribly neglected at home really. Poor Mummy . . . But he told me, a while ago – I delivered someone’s baby you see . . .’ I felt myself growing incoherent, trying to hold back my tears. It felt too intimate to cry in front of Douglas. ‘He told me he was proud of me.’

Douglas stopped me gently and turned me round to face him. Then, realizing his hands were on my shoulders, he hastily removed them.

‘When’s the funeral?’

‘On Friday.’

‘Would you like me to come?’

Startled, I looked up at him. ‘I don’t know. It’s just – my mother’s rather difficult, and my brother’s coming home, I think. It could be a bit – it won’t be much fun for you.’

‘Fun?’ Douglas exploded. ‘What d’you think I am, made of wood or something? It doesn’t matter about your family. Of course it’ll be difficult. It’s a bloody awful business. I’d come because I care about you, you silly thing.’

The scarred left cheek was twitching slightly and his eyes were full of an emotion which I couldn’t read. It only dawned on me then that his feelings for me were much stronger than I had imagined.

‘All right. That would be very good of you, thank you.’

I was very weary and wrung out. I knew if I stayed with him much longer it would end with me stepping into his arms and crying myself out. My feelings were confused and painful and could only be eased, I felt, by my getting away from him.

‘Look, I’m very sorry. This hasn’t been much of an outing, I know. But I’m very tired. I’d like to go home.’

Douglas was all courtesy. We waited in silence at the bus stop. All I could feel was my acute need to be out of his company. Saying nothing, we sat together on the slow-moving bus. I got off first at Moseley.

‘Thank you,’ I said, standing up quickly. ‘See you soon . . .’ I tried to smile at him.

As the bus passed me I saw him looking out, searching for me with his eyes.

*

At Daddy’s funeral he kept well in the background. I was glad he was there, though my mind was mostly on other things. I wished Olivia could be there and that I could turn to her, but I had to be content with her brief letter.

A bewildering number of people did attend the service, though. I looked round the church seeing faces I had never set eyes on before: many must have been patients, but there were also a rather oddly dressed crew in mismatched clothes and squashed felt hats, some of whom I guessed were his Christian Socialist friends. The organ let out a bleak sound and it was raining outside so the lights had to be on in the church. The tribute all these people were making to Daddy by being there made me feel wretched and powerless, as if circumstances had cheated me. Why had I known him so little? All these people for and with whom he had worked so hard, had in fact given his life for, and I had barely known of their existence.

Mummy was dignified and calm. She was well used to buttoning up her emotions. She wore her usual brown coat since she didn’t possess a black one, and a black hat with a wide brim against which her pale features looked sharp and severe. She sat beside me on the front pew, her back very straight.

William had two days’ leave from his Intelligence – hush hush – work for the army. He looked older, thinner, with his cropped hair, and as ever, self-important. We were civil to each other, if not warm. I could see by the strained look of his face that he was cut up by Daddy’s death.