A Rather English Marriage (27 page)

Rather than think about Alicia, she tried to concentrate on
him. This suited Reggie, who had enjoyed ‘shooting a line' to Southgate about his RAF exploits, and was easily encouraged to do the same with Liz. When, therefore, she said, ‘But weren't you terrified when you went out on – what were they called – missions?', he topped up her wine glass, and his own, and cast his mind pleasurably back.

‘What you've got to remember,' he began, ‘is that half the time you were shooting the hell out of the Hun because he was after you, or he'd just had a crack at one of your squadron and you wanted to get your blood back. You weren't fighting cold. Didn't have time to be yellow. Just got on with it. You're not on your own up there. Twelve of you, twelve Spitfires roaring off in formation, to come back in two hours' time in ones and twos. And in between you've packed in more experience than today's youngsters get in a lifetime.'

Liz was impressed. He's not absurd, she thought, for all his red face and bulging eyes. This old buffer fought and might have died in the last war, even if he did take pleasure in killing.

‘What were you fighting
for
?' she asked.

‘To get our own back for friends who'd been killed. Getting your blood back, it was called. To stop Hitler, of course. To serve the King – you can smile, but it mattered then. And to protect our own: families and girlfriends, young mothers pushing prams. We saw Hitler as a menace, trying to spread out all over Europe, and England too, and we had to put a stop to it. Simple as that, really.'

‘And afterwards?' she persisted. ‘After those mid-air battles? Did you go into shock, start to feel guilty, or what?'

‘Christ, no! In fact, those times, the Battle of Britain especially, 1940, they were about the happiest of my life. The morale of our outfit was incredible. The atmosphere was more boyish high spirits than anything We'd have colossal binges afterwards, pull each other's legs, muck about. Never felt
guilty.'

‘And when one of your comrades died? What then?'

‘Life was cheap. Don't look like that, Liz. It was a great way to go – dying for your country. Better than being captured.
Better than coming home to your girlfriend with two amputated legs. If a chap didn't come back, you didn't grieve. Didn't have time. In any case, you'd have gone completely nuts. Chaps'd keep a kitty in the bar so that if they bought it, the other fellows could have a last round of drinks on them. That's the only way you could get through it.'

He smiled across the table at her, and picked up his knife and fork again.

‘And here I am, fifty years later, having dinner with you,' she said.

‘It'd have been very different if you'd met me then,' he said, thinking, Popsies like you were two a penny in those days. None of the girls would say no to a fighter boy, young heroes patrolling the skies, risking their lives for them. You had your pick of bogle then! And of them all, I picked Mary: demure, soft-spoken, innocent Mary. It wasn't your type I was after then. So what's changed now?

Liz twisted the stem of her glass between her fingers and thought, I bet he's not kidding.

‘What did you look like in those days?' she asked. ‘Have you got any photographs of yourself?'

‘Back at the house, yes. Come up and see my etchings … ! Well, let's see. About the same height but a good deal less round the middle. Hair was thicker in those days. Curly. Could never get it to lie down. Eyes blue, language to match. That's enough line-shooting. Waiter! The menu. Pudding for you, my dear, or cheese?'

He drove her back to the house to find his wartime photographs. Good: no sign of Southgate. Heads together, he inhaled the soft muskiness of her scent. She scrutinized the serious young face above the silver wings of the RAF crest emblazoned over his left breast pocket. Reginald remembered that photograph. He'd had it taken for Mary just after they married so that if they had a kid, there'd be a decent picture of his father for the lad to look at. He'd frowned slightly, so as to look mature and responsible, but the thick curls springing
irrepressibly from his forehead made him look more like an ardent schoolboy.

‘How young you look!' said Liz, stating the obvious. ‘Touching. What do those stripes mean?'

‘Flight lieutenant,' he said. ‘That was '42, soon after I married. Got made Squadron Leader in '44, when I was posted to a squadron flying Typhoons over Normandy. Later on into Germany, up to the time of the surrender.'

There was a snapshot of the squadron leaning against the wing of a Spit with Rusty, their mascot. The sight of all those keen young faces – Christ! half of them, he'd even forgotten their names! – brought on a wave of sadness and regret. The wind was whipping at their hair and trouser legs as they stood, elaborately casual, distorted by the bulky Mae Wests around their shoulders. There they all were: Johnny Chilton and Lucky, Shorty and Chaggers; Thingummy; So-and-so – what the hell was his name? Alf? Wilf? No good: he'd forgotten it. Suddenly his carefully laid seduction plans seemed more trouble than they were worth. A life worth living and a death worth dying? It wasn't true that death was cheap and unheeded.

‘I'll run you home,' he said.

Liz looked up in surprise.

‘Oh dear,' she said. ‘I
am
sorry. I've depressed you. Poor love. Christ, it just didn't occur to me. I'll get a taxi.'

‘It's OK,' he insisted, ‘can't have you baling out all by yourself. One for the road?'

‘No,' she said, surprised and even slightly put out by his sudden melancholy. ‘No thanks. Just take me home, if you're really sure.'

He drove her back, dropped her off, wouldn't come in, kissed her cheek, roared away. He was a man without artifice in the battle of the sexes, but he understood the chase, and no strategy could have been more effective as a means of recapturing her flagging attention. If I'm not careful I could lose him, thought Liz, and the way things are looking, I can't afford to let that happen.

*

On Saturday Alicia rang.

‘Hi, Ma. Got the dosh. I'll come down tomorrow, then, OK?'

‘Lovely, darling. I'll cook you up a nice Ma's Sunday lunch.'

‘Christ,
lunch?
Don't know if I can make it that early.'

‘Doesn't have to be early. We could eat at two.'

‘But that'd mean I'd have to catch a train by about half-
twelve
…' Liz gave a silent, resigned sigh.

‘Lissa, you come when it suits you, all right? I won't cook up anything special.'

‘Brilliant! Hey, Ma, you still smoking?'

‘' Fraid so, Why?'

‘Just wondered. See you tomorrow, then!'

‘Are you bringing anyone, darling? You're welcome to, if you like.'

‘Christ, no. I've got to
talk
to you. That's why I'm coming. Bye, Ma!'

Liz tried to prepare herself for her daughter's news. In descending order of awfulness, she decided, it would be Aids; drugs; boyfriend a drug addict; pregnancy; another abortion; job lost; broke. It had to be one of those, maybe more than one. She chose some garments from the shop which looked unlikely to sell but might fit Alicia and cheer her up. With luck she'd be out of the black-and-fringed phase by now.

Her daughter arrived at teatime on Sunday. Her hair was braided in dozens of tiny Afro plaits. She wore skin-tight multicoloured leggings and orange suede boots with pointed toes. On top was a vast holey T-shirt, adorned with beads and bits of silver necklaces. A long scarf was tied around her hips. As far as Liz could tell, Alicia wore no underwear. But she noticed, as she embraced the stiff and unresponsive young body, that at least her skin smelled clean.

‘Cup of tea?' she said, leading the way to the kitchen. ‘Coffee?'

‘Coffee'd be great. No milk. Loads of sugar. Ta.'

‘I looked out a couple of things from the shop for you,
sweetheart,' Liz began, hoping to placate her wary daughter and reduce the tension between them.

‘Waste of time. (A) I wouldn't like them, I never do, and (B) I'm pregnant.'

‘Oh my darling …' Liz heaved a sigh of relief, of apprehension, of welcome – perhaps
this
baby, finally, would be her first grandchild? – of tenderness for her daughter. Cautiously, she said, ‘What are you going to do?'

‘I've decided to keep this one. I'm nearly twenty-eight. It's about time I started a family, before it's too late and I've fucked up my body too much. Yeah, I can handle a baby.'

‘I'm thrilled,' said Liz. ‘Congratulations. Give me a hug, my darling.' They hugged.

‘That coffee ready yet?' asked Alicia.

Liz loaded up a tray with coffee and biscuits, and they walked through to the sitting room.

‘Am I allowed to ask about its father?' asked Liz.

‘Him? Bastard! You can forget about him. He doesn't know and I'm not going to tell him.'

Thus, Liz reflected, thus, on a whim and a row, today's fathers are deprived of their children; and children of their genetic fathers and birthright, of family resemblances, characteristics, talents, history and photograph albums. So I'll be its only grandparent, Lissy its only parent. Not what you might call a big family. She sighed again. ‘Lissy, my love, are you sure? He can't have been that awful. Have you known him long?'

‘Yeah. Six months or so. I'm not saying I didn't fancy him, ‘cos I did, he's smashing-looking, the baby'll be stunning; but he was a sexist bastard. And into drugs. And that's no good for the baby.'

‘It's not good for a child to grow up without a father.'

‘Didn't stop you and Dad getting divorced, did it?' Alicia flashed, and Liz was silenced.

Eventually she said, ‘Have you seen anything of your father? Does he know?'

‘Not for the last year or so. Last I heard, he was in the south of France. Fuck him. I don't care.'

‘He might be able to help you financially.'

‘Him? Give me money? You've got to be joking! Can
you
lend me a couple of hundred quid or so, Ma, just while I sort myself out? I'll pay you back.'

In the end the sum of the bad news was that, yes, Alicia was three months pregnant, yes, broke, yes, had lost her job as a waitress in a smart Soho brasserie (‘The sight of all that food on people's plates made me throw up.
Not
good for business'); but no, not on drugs (‘Well, only dope, and that doesn't count:
everyone
does dope'), and not HIV-positive. Oh, and could she make that two hundred five hundred while she was about it? It could have been worse, Liz told herself bleakly.

She didn't bother to show Alicia the clothes she had selected for her from the shop, which now looked pitifully inappropriate. She persuaded her daughter to eat some poached egg and fresh fruit for supper, gave her a soothing tisane and a clean cotton nightie and by ten o'clock she was tucked up in the small spare bedroom, under the Margaret W. Tarrant picture that had hung on the nursery wall of gentle Jesus surrounded by little children and baby animals. Then Liz went downstairs for a stiff drink.

Reginald surrendered the Mercedes to Roy without a murmur, without even asking him to put petrol into its insatiable tank. Roy drove to Balham and collected the boys, who had assembled a crowd of local friends to watch their departure. It was half-term; all the kids were on holiday for a week, and they made a ceremonial progress through the surrounding streets. Roy prayed that the car wouldn't be scratched, but it seemed protected by the presence of his grandsons. Beyond their own busy streets, they settled down to the purring speed of the M20. The boys squabbled about the car radio, which they tuned to one of the pop-music channels and played at top volume. Finally Roy could stand it no longer.

‘Shut up, the pair of you!' he said. ‘I've had quite enough of your noise,
and
that caterwauling you call music. Sounds
like parrots in the jungle to me. Now settle down and keep quiet. You can have Radio 4 or nothing. Which is it to be?'

Radio 4, they said, and listened docilely to
Woman's Hour
. Before too long Joe was asleep and even Billy was lolling against him, eyelids drooping. Roy glanced through the rear-view mirror and was moved to pity at the sight of the blue-veined tracery showing through the pale skin of their throats and small, relaxed hands. My flesh and blood, he thought. I fought for you. I blundered through Germany, cold, tired, longing to be home, and what kept me going was the thought of you, my unknown future, my children's children, yet to be born. I won't let Alan hurt you! He fathered you, he's got to stick by you.

As they approached the prison, he woke them up.

‘I wasn't asleep, Grandad!' said Billy.

‘Nor was I,' said Joe, rubbing his eyes. They looked around.

‘This'll be the last time we visit your Dad here,' said Roy. ‘He's asked to be moved to another place: nearer, or at any rate, not so difficult to get to.'

It wasn't strictly true. Alan had put in a request to be removed to a prison north of London for the remaining two months of his sentence, because this would make it easier for Sheila to visit him.

‘Good!' said Joe. ‘I hate this bloody dump.'

‘Don't use that language,' said Roy.

Billy looked at him in surprise. ‘Why not?' he asked.

‘Because it's bad language,' Roy answered. ‘Not for children. It sounds all wrong on the lips of innocent children.'

They both began to titter.

‘I mean it,' said Roy. ‘I won't have you using those words in my presence. Your Nan wouldn't have stood for it, and nor will I.'

‘Yes, Grandad,' they both said, obedient or mocking, it didn't matter.

‘Now, have you thought what you're going to say to your
Dad? You're not just going to sit there like last time, not saying nothing, are you?'