What Have I Done? (34 page)
‘Right, love, listen. The main buffet is all laid out on the trestle in the corner; everyone will help themselves a bit later on. Serviettes, plates and whatnot are already on the table. Just keep an eye out, make sure that no platters run empty, we can refill them in here. Look for anyone that’s missing a serviette or cutlery, that kind of thing. You know what’s what; it’s not as if you haven’t done it before. These are just bits to pass around until they eat proper, so let’s get them out there and served or they’ll be on the turn and I haven’t been slaving away all day in this bloody kitchen so that you can ruin my food!’
‘I hate doing this, Mum!’
‘Really? You haven’t mentioned it.’
‘It’s just so embarrassing. They’re always old-timers who smell like lavender and tell me how lucky I am to be a teenager now and not twenty years ago. I know I’m lucky, I don’t need reminding by some stinky pensioner every five minutes.’
‘Dot, please, just shut up and take the bloody food in!’
‘I am! It’s just so unfair and anyway, in three years I’ll be twenty-one and then I’ll be free to do what I bloody want.’
Joan dipped into the metal tray under the counter top and lifted a large serving spoon in her direction. ‘Oi! Less of the “bloody”, missus. Until you are actually twenty-one, you are not too old for a ladling!’
‘A ladling? You just made that up! And you say “bloody” all the time!’ Dot concentrated on her outstretched arm, grappling with the wide silver platter that threatened to slide off the folded white linen cloth on which it sat.
‘Yes I do, because I can, and when you’re as old as me you can swear as much as you like. In the meantime, get that food out!’
Dot drew a deep breath and faced the double swing door that would reveal her in all her shame to the awaiting guests. ‘I’m never going to be old,’ she offered over her shoulder.
‘You’re right, Dot. If you carry on defying me and those canapés spoil, you won’t make twenty-one – I’ll bloody kill ya!’
Mother and daughter laughed until they snorted. Dot shook her head to compose herself. It was bad enough having to go out looking like a prize plum, trussed up like a Christmas pudding, without snorting her way through the crowd as well.
‘What are you waiting for now?’
‘I’m just composing meself!’
‘Composing yourself? Christ alive, Dot! Just get that food out now!’
‘All right, all right – I’m going.’
‘And come straight back for the vol-au-vents!’ Joan bellowed at her daughter’s disappearing back.
Dot pushed against the plushly padded velour door with its brass studs, which reminded her of a sideways sofa. She strained to hear the music that was coming from the grand piano in the corner; the sultry tones of Etta James drifted from the gramophone and the musician played along with the record. She glimpsed the bowed head of the black pianist, who with eyes closed and neck bowed was tickling the ivories.
‘At last
My love has come along
My lonely days are over
And life is like a song’
She loved the song and she hummed it inside her head as she wandered among the thirty or so guests. This room had always fascinated her: the polished dark-wood floor and the light from the huge chandelier meant everything sparkled. Vast oil paintings hung on the walls, each one of a military man either on horseback or with his weapon of choice held aloft. It intrigued her how such a large group of people could be gathered in one room and yet the loudest sound was the chink of glass against glass, with only the faintest hum of background chatter and the odd tinkle of delicate laughter. In the Victorian terrace where she lived with her mum, dad and little sister it was never quiet. If not loud music from the radio and the bashing of pots and pans in the kitchen, then the whistling of the kettle and the shouts of questions and instructions up and down the stairs:
‘CUP OF TEA?’
‘ONLY IF YOU’RE MAKING!’
‘WHERE ARE MY CLEAN SHIRTS?’
‘IN THE AIRING CUPBOARD!’
The fact that someone might be a whole floor away from you was no reason to exclude them from the conversation.
‘Would-you-like-a-devilled-egg?’ Dot lowered her natural volume and used her posh voice, just as she had been taught.
A bushy-moustached man in naval uniform with flash gold epaulettes practically dived onto the tray. She watched him scoop a handful of delicate white ovals from the platter and cram them into his gob. At least she could tell her mum that someone appreciated her cooking.
‘Not for me, dear.’ His wife raised her white-gloved hand. A pity; the poor woman looked like she would benefit from the odd devilled egg. She was stick thin and her paisley-print, bat-wing frock hung off her tiny frame. She had drawn her eyebrows way too high on her forehead; like a dolly peg, Dot thought.
Next she infiltrated a group of elderly men and women who collectively smelled of dust and fish paste. ‘Would-you-like-a-devilled-egg?’ She proffered the tray in the direction of one old bloke.
‘Would I what?’ he yelled at her.
Dot bit the inside of her cheeks, praying she wouldn’t get the giggles and immensely glad that Barb wasn’t around; if she had caught her friend’s eye, she would have been in hysterics. She gave a small cough and tried again in her low, posher-than-usual voice. ‘Would-you-like-a-devilled-egg?’
‘Is it something about my leg?’ he yelled again.
‘Your leg? NO, NO. WOULD YOU CARE FOR A DEVILLED EGG?’ This time she over-enunciated every word. It took a monumental effort to stop her from laughing out loud.
‘I’m afraid I don’t care for much, lost my brother in the war y’see.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that, sir, but can I tempt you?’ This time she lifted the tray until it was practically under his schnoz.
‘What is that?’ he asked, prodding at the softened offering.
‘They are canapés, sir.’
‘Cans of what?’
Dot felt her shoulders begin to shake. A ripple of laughter was working its way up her throat and down her nose; she felt fit to explode.
‘Excuse me a mo, I’ll be right back.’ She thought it best to make a hasty retreat to the kitchen and compose herself. Turning quickly, she failed to see that another devilled-egg seeker in military uniform was standing not a foot behind her. It was a collision of comical proportions.
The tray of canapés flipped from her arm and stuck to the front of his tunic. Squashed eggs and mayonnaise sat like a cloying, liquid blanket on his jacket. One hollowed-out egg was actually lodged on a brass button. Almost immediately the silver platter hit the floor with an almighty crash. Both parties bent to retrieve the tray and, with perfect timing, bashed their heads together, sending her flying along the newly polished wooden floor and leaving him clutching his forehead with mayonnaise-smeared palms.
Momentarily dazed, Dot was aware of several shouts of ‘Oh no!’ and the collective gasps of thirty of London’s finest watching as she went sprawling. She lay back and looked up at the ceiling, noticing for the first time that it was painted with the most beautiful mural. Fat-bottomed cherubs played harps and lutes in each corner and there was a gold table stacked high with bowls of fruit and flagons of wine. Clouds parted to reveal a heavily bearded God with his arms spread wide and beams of sunlight shining through the gaps. She was captivated. Lowering her eyes from the ceiling, she saw a circle of faces above her. Dolly-peg lady, greedy bastard and the dust-and-fish-paste gang were among them. Someone reached into the circle and held onto both her hands, then she felt herself being pulled swiftly upwards.
Finally upright, her attention was drawn to her right and the smeared khaki and tarnished brass of a uniform that had met with an unfortunate accident involving a platter of eggs. Dot bit her bottom lip. What had she done? Joan would go mad.
She looked up at her rescuer. Her breath caught in her throat and her knees buckled slightly as she swayed. She was staring into the face of a black man and he was holding her hands. She was caught somewhere between fascination and fear; she’d never seen a black person up this close before, let alone held hands with one. But what surprised her more than anything was that it was the most beautiful face she had ever seen. He was the piano player.
‘Are you all right?’ His voice was like liquid chocolate, deep, smooth and with an accent she couldn’t place, like American, but different. His big eyes, framed with thick curly lashes were so dark, she couldn’t see where the pupil stopped and the iris started.
‘I’m fine. You all right?’ she countered, looking at him through lowered lashes and wishing she had put more lipstick on.
‘Oh, I’m fine, thank you, but I’m not the one that’s been wrestling on the floor with men old enough to know better!’
‘D’you think anyone noticed?’ She smiled
The pianist cast his eye over the mess and the bemused onlookers. ‘No, I don’t think anyone noticed a thing.’
He hesitated. ‘I don’t know your name?’
‘Dot.’
‘Dot? As in dash, dash, dash, dot, dot—’
‘Yep, as in Dot.’ She smiled.
‘Is it short for anything?’
‘Ah, well, there’s a tale. Apparently me dad was one over the eight when he went to register my birth in Canning Town. Mum was still lying in and when they asked him my name, he couldn’t remember that it was supposed to be Dorothy – after Dorothy Squires, no less! – and so he said “Dorothea”, but I’ve only ever been known as Dot. That’s me, I’m just a Dot!’
He studied her face, her wide smile, the peachy skin with the smattering of freckles across her straight nose. Her eyes were wide and sparkling – whether from her bump on the head or something else entirely he couldn’t be sure.
‘But I think you are more than just a Dot. If you hadn’t been there to provide the evening’s entertainment, I’d still be stuck in there trying not to look bored. You have been the highlight of my evening so far – although the night is young.’
‘Ha! Let me tell you, I’ve met the whole gang up there and I am definitely the highlight of your evening.’
‘I think you might be right.’ He gave an almost imperceptible wink.
‘And when you are calling me Dot, what should I call you?’
‘Sol, short for Solomon. My dad wasn’t one over the eight when I was registered.’
‘Well, lucky old you. And what does Solomon mean?’
‘It means “Peace”.’
Read on for the first chapter of
How far would you go to bring home the one you love?
A gripping story of loss and courage from army wife Amanda Prowse.
The major yanked first at one cuff and then the other, ensuring three-eighths of an inch was visible beneath his tunic sleeves. With his thumb and forefinger he circled his lips, finishing with a small cough, designed to clear the throat. He nodded in the direction of the door, indicating to the accompanying sergeant that he could proceed. He was ready.
‘Coming!’ Poppy cast the sing-song word over her shoulder in the direction of the hallway, once again making a mental note to fix the front door bell as the internal mechanism grated against the loose, metal cover. The intensely irritating sound had become part of the rhythm of the flat. She co-habited with an orchestra of architectural ailments, the stars of which were the creaking hinge of the bedroom door, the dripping
bathroom
tap and the whirring extractor fan that now extracted very little.
Poppy smiled and looped her hair behind her ears. It was probably Jenna, who would often nip over during her lunch break. Theirs was a comfortable camaraderie, arrived at after many years of friendship; no need to wash up cups, hide laundry or even get dressed, they interacted without inhibition or
pretence
. Poppy prepped the bread and counted the fish fingers under the grill, working out how to make two sandwiches instead of one, an easy calculation. She felt a swell of happiness.
The front door bell droned again, ‘All right! All right!’ Poppy licked stray blobs of tomato ketchup from the pads of her
thumbs and laughed at the impatient digit that jabbed once more at the plastic circle on the outside wall.
Tossing the checked tea towel onto the work surface, she stepped into the hallway and looked through the safety glass at the top of the door, opaque through design and a lack of
domesticity
. Poppy slowed down until almost stationary, squinting at the scene in front of her, as though by altering her viewpoint, she could change the sight that greeted her. Her heart fluttered in an irregular beat. Placing a flattened palm against her
breastbone
, she tried to bring calm to her flustered pulse. The surge of happiness disappeared, forming a ball of ice that sank down into the base of her stomach, filling her bowels with a cold dread. Poppy wasn’t looking at the silhouette of her friend; not a ponytail in sight. Instead, there were two shapes, two men, two soldiers.
She couldn’t decide whether to turn and switch off the grill or continue to the front door and let them in. The indecision rendered her useless. She concentrated on staying present, feeling at any point she might succumb to the maelstrom within her mind. The whirling confusion threatened to make her faint. She shook her head, trying to order her thoughts. It worked.
She wondered how long they would be, how long it would all take. There were fish fingers to eat and she was due back at the salon in half an hour with a shampoo and set arriving in forty minutes. Poppy thought it strange how an ordinary day could be made so very extraordinary. She knew the small details of every action, usually forgotten after one sleep, would stay with her forever; each minute aspect indelibly etching itself on her memory. The way her toes flexed and stiffened inside her soft, red socks, the pop and sizzle of her lunch under the grill and the way the TV was suddenly far too loud.
She considered the hazy outlines of her as yet unseen visitors and her thoughts turned to the fact that her home wasn’t tidy.
She wished she wasn’t cooking fish. It would only become curious in hindsight that she had been worried about minutiae when the reason for their visit was so much more important than a cooking aroma and a concern that some cushions might have been improperly plumped.
Columbo
was on TV. She hadn’t been watching; it was instead a comforting background noise. She had done that a lot since Martin went away, switching on either the TV or radio as soon as she stepped through the door; anything other than endure the silence of a life lived alone. She hated that.
Poppy looked again to confirm that there were two of them; thus reinforcing what she thought she already knew. It is a
well-known
code; a letter for good news, telephone call for minor incident, a visit from one soldier for quite bad, two for the very worst.
She noted the shapes that stood the other side of her door. One was a regular soldier, identifiable by his hat; the other was a bloke of rank, an officer. She didn’t recognise either of their outlines, strangers. She knew what they were going to say before they spoke, before one single word had been uttered; their stance was awkward and unnatural.
Her mind flew to the cardboard box hidden under the bed. In it was underwear, lacy, tarty pieces that Martin had chosen. She would throw them away; there would be no need for them any more, no more anniversaries, birthdays or special Sunday mornings when the world was reduced to a square of mattress, a corner of duvet and the skin of the man she loved.
Poppy wasn’t sure how long she took to reach for the handle, but had the strangest feeling that with each step taken, the door moved slightly further away.
She slid the chain with a steady hand; it hadn’t been given a reason to shake, not yet. Opening the door wide, it banged against the inside wall. The tarnished handle found its regular
groove in the plasterwork. Ordinarily, she would only have opened it a fraction, enough to peek out and see who was there, but this was no ordinary situation and with two soldiers on the doorstep, what harm could she come to? Poppy stared at them. They were pale, twitchy. She looked past them, over the
concrete
, third-floor walkway and up at the sky, knowing that these were the last few seconds that her life would be intact. She wanted to enjoy the feeling, confident that once they had spoken, everything would be broken. She gazed at the perfect blue, daubed with the merest wisp of cloud. It was beautiful, really beautiful.
The two men appraised her as she stared over their heads into the middle distance. It was the first few seconds in which they would form their opinion. One of them noted her
wrinkled
, freckled nose, her clear, open expression. The other considered the grey slabs amid which she stood and registered the fraying cuff of her long-sleeved T-shirt.
Their training told them to expect a number of varied responses; from fainting or rage to extreme distress, each had a prescribed treatment and procedure. This was their worst
scenario
, the disengaged, silent recipient with delayed reactions, much harder for them to predict.
Poppy thought about the night before her husband left for Afghanistan, wishing that she could go back to then and do it differently. She had watched his mechanical actions, saw him smooth the plastic-wrapped, mud-coloured, Boy Scout
paraphernalia
that was destined for its sandy desert home. A place she couldn’t picture, in a life that she was barred from. She didn’t notice how his fingertips lingered on the embroidered roses of their duvet cover, the last touch to a thing of feminine beauty that for him meant home, meant Poppy.
Martin was packing his rucksack which was propped open on their bed when he started to whistle. Poppy didn’t recognise
the tune. She stared at his smiling, whistling face as he folded his clothes and wash kit into the voluminous, khaki cavern. He paused to push his non-existent fringe out of his eyes. Like the man that’s lost a finger, but still rubs the gap to relieve the cold, so Martin raked hair that was now shorn.
Poppy couldn’t decipher his smile, but it was enough to release the torrent that had been gathering behind her tongue. Any casual observer might have surmised that he was going on holiday with the boys, not off to a war zone.
‘Are you happy, Mart? In fact, ignore me, that’s a silly
question
, of course you are because this is what you wanted isn’t it? Leaving me, your mates and everything else behind for half a year while you play with guns.’
Poppy didn’t know what she expected him to say, but she’d hoped he would say something. She wanted him to pull her close, tell her that this was the last thing he wanted to do and that he didn’t want to leave her, or at the very least that he wished he could take her with him. Something, anything that would make things feel better. Instead, he said nothing, did nothing.
‘Did you hear me, Mart? I was asking if you were finally happy now your plan is coming together, the big fantastic future that you’ve been dreaming of.’
‘Poppy please…’
‘Don’t you dare “Poppy please”, don’t ask me for anything or expect me to understand because I don’t! This is what you signed up for; this is what it means, Mart, you pissing off to some godforsaken bit of desert, leaving me stuck here. This is what I’ve been trying to tell you since you walked through the door in your bloody suit with your secret little mission complete!’
‘It won’t be forever.’ His voice was small; his eyes fixed on the floor.
Poppy noted his blank expression, as if it was the first time it had occurred to him that she might need him too. This only made her angrier because it might have only just occurred to him, but she had been thinking of nothing else.
‘I don’t care how long it’s for. Don’t you get it? Whether it’s for one night or one year, it’s too long. You are leaving me here with the junkies on the stairs and the boring bloody winter nights. All I’ve got to look forward to is sitting with my bonkers nan. So you go, Mart, and get this little adventure out of your system, prove whatever it is that you need to prove. Don’t worry about me. I can look after myself, but you know that, right?’
She didn’t want to argue, preferring instead to clamp her arms around his neck and hang on. She wanted to press her lips really hard onto his and kiss him, storing those kisses away for the times when she would miss him the most. Her ache had grown so physical that she shook; the tremors fed a growing anger.
In the aftermath of Martin’s departure, Poppy felt some small relief that he had gone. The dread of his imminent exodus disappeared, replaced with the reality of his absence which, initially, was somehow easier to bear. She replayed the words of their argument, considered their actions… She did that, knowing the only person that suffered because of her
obsessional
recalling of the details was her.
Martin called it sulking, but for her the silent musings were a way of trying to figure out what happened and why, looking for an answer or at least some kind of rational explanation. Sometimes of course there wasn’t one, a row just happens because of tiredness, an irritation or a million other
inconsequential
things.
Their fight couldn’t be attributed to anything so
transparent
. He hadn’t failed to hoover the carpet properly, left the loo seat up or not put the milk back in the fridge. It was much
more than that. They were frightened, yet too scared to admit to that fear.
It would be difficult to put in order the many things that they were afraid of. Being parted for such a ridiculous length of time was right up there, the possible lack of communication and the loneliness; these were all contenders for the top spot. There was also the unspeakable fear that Martin might get hurt or killed. It was too awful a scenario to share or say out loud, but think about it they did, separately and secretly with faces averted on dented pillows.
Poppy had wanted to tell him that if he got injured, think loss of limb or blindness, that it wouldn’t make any difference to her. She knew that it would be tough, but she also knew that she would not have loved him any less, confident that they would find a way through it; that they could find a way through anything. At least that’s what she believed.
One of her many ‘if-only’ scenarios, saw her telling Martin over a glass of wine that he was the one thing that had made her life worth living for so many years. The only constant that she could rely on and she would never regret a single second. She wanted him to know that she would rather have had him for a shortened length of time, than fifty years of average. She hoped he knew that she would miss him every second of every day, that she would never let another man touch her. It was only him, always him, the very thought of anything else made her feel sick. She would be content to grow old alone with her memories; the biggest sadness, of course, would have been that she never got her baby.
After brooding unhindered for a few days, Poppy was then swamped with guilt. How dare she have fought with him, not given him physical comfort when he was now so far away, facing an enemy in a hostile environment, devoid of love,
affection
and human touch?
When these sharpened emotions blunted through the passing of time, she was left with the dull ache of loneliness. Half a year, one hundred and eighty days, it didn’t matter how many times she pictured an event six months previously and thought how quickly that time had passed; it still felt like an eternity, a sentence.
The officer coughed into his sideways bunched fist, drawing her into the now. She waited for him to speak, not wanting to prompt; there was no hurry. Similarly, she didn’t want to make it easy, hoping he might feel a little bit of the pain that she was starting to feel. Poppy stood rigid, imagining what came next. She heard his unspoken words in her head, wondering which phrase he had chosen, rehearsed. ‘Martin is dead’; ‘Martin was injured and now he is dead’; ‘something dreadful has happened, Poppy, Martin is dead’; ‘Mrs Cricket, we have some terrible news. Are you alone?’
She’d always imagined what this visit would be like. Try to find an army wife, husband, mother or father that hasn’t played out this scenario. You won’t be able to because this is how they live. Every time there is a lull in contact or a late night when a promise to call is broken, pulses quicken, car keys are mentally located. Muscles tense as if on starting blocks, in readiness to get to wherever they might be needed with the first waves of grief lapping at their heels. Each unexpected knock at the door, or post-nine p.m. telephone call, causes palms to break sweat until the moment passes and breath returns in a deep sigh. The various salesmen mistake the euphoria for buying signals and not simply the relief of those left behind to watch the clock and tick off the days. For the loved ones of these warriors, it is a sweet relief that it’s not their turn, not today.
