Family of Women (17 page)

They walked down to the seafront in the misty morning. It felt very early. The breeze blew brisk and salty, bringing roses to their cheeks and ahead of them, grey waves heaved and shifted, breaking in a roll of frothy white.

‘Is that the sea?’ Linda’s voice was barely more than a whisper.

‘Aye – that’s it. And that’s the beach.’ Muriel took them as close as it was possible to get. There were rolls of barbed wire stretching all along its margin. ‘See – all the pebbles?’

They stared and stared. The sea sucked loudly through the stones.

‘See those?’ Muriel pointed at the two piers, extending out into the breakers, ghostly in the fog. ‘That one’s the Palace Pier – and that’s the West Pier. There’s lots of fun to be had on those – or there would be if it was nae for the war.’

‘The war spoils everything,’ Joyce grumbled.

‘Aye – but we’re having some fun together, aren’t we?’

‘We wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for the war,’ Violet said.

And she realized, guiltily, that she was glad.

The shop had a green and gold sign over the door saying ‘Hall’s Bakery’. They walked back into delicious smells, and Auntie Jean fed them on crusty white bread and the rashers of bacon. Violet knew it was one of the nicest things she’d ever tasted, and said so.

‘That’ll be the sea air,’ Auntie h; iv>

Violet could already feel that the day was going to pass in a flash, and they had to be back on a late afternoon train to be at work the next morning.

They spent the hours they had walking round the town and seeing some of the grand buildings and looking in the shops, and the children played in the park and they had a dinner of fish and chips. As the day went by the mist burned off and though the breeze was cool, it was lovely and sunny. They enjoyed the town thoroughly, but all the time they kept being drawn back to the sea, sapphire blue now the sun was out, all of them fascinated by its immensity, its endless movement.

Joyce and Linda had a little bag of sweets each and they strolled along the front. There was only one sour moment, when they passed two rather smartly dressed women who spoke in loud voices, not caring who heard.

‘Oh – ’ one of them said, eyeing Violet and Muriel and the children. ‘Must be some more of those dreadful evacuees. I rather thought we’d seen the last of them.’

‘Well, we live in hope!’ the other said. She
turned for a moment, looking them up and down and said, ‘
Ghastly!
’ Then the two of them went off, laughing behind their hands.

Violet saw Linda staring after them. She saw herself and her children through her eyes: down at heel, poor, not respectable.

‘Oh, ignore the snooty bitches,’ Muriel said, catching sight of her face. ‘I’d love to see them in a welding mask!’

As the last minutes of the time they had left in Brighton went by terribly quickly, they stood looking out at the sea, the sky patched with puffy clouds. Violet found herself drifting off almost into a trance, lulled by the waves’ rhythm, her thoughts stilled. How could you take in, on a day like this, all the fighting going on in rld? She was filled suddenly with a deep sense of longing. She leaned on the railing, watching the waves break and break and all she could think of was the poem that Roy Keillor had read, and over the water, like a spirit presence, she seemed to see his face.

Spring was turning into summer, and often when Violet passed the Keillors’ house the two little boys were playing out at the front. One was, as Roy had said, dark and delicate-featured like him, the other was round-faced and fair. At times she saw the little girl as well. Occasionally she passed him in the street, once when his wife was beside him, and they all greeted each other with a polite nod.

At this time she was trying to ignore the effect that any meeting with him had on her, the way it seemed to mean far more than it should, the excitement she felt at any chance of seeing him.

It was some time before they spoke again. She was on her way back from Bessie’s. It was still light and she saw him coming along the street, an old trilby shadowing his face. As they drew closer he looked up, and she saw his expression change. He smiled and lifted his hat. Violet felt a wave of something pass through her, the way she imagined a boms she (b blast might feel, only on the inside.

‘Hello,’ he said.

‘Hello.’ She could feel Joyce and Linda watching them.

Then neither of them knew what to say.

‘We haven’t seen you,’ she blurted at last, realizing at once that it was an odd thing to say and blushing.

Roy seemed embarrassed. ‘After I’d been round I . . . Well, you must’ve both thought it funny of me – coming along like that, with the poetry book . . . I don’t know why I did it.’

‘I liked it. It was . . . I’ve never heard anything like it before. Only . . .’ Everything she said seemed to be coming out wrong. ‘I mean, I couldn’t catch it all.’

‘I don’t think your friend liked it much.’ He gave a chuckle and she liked the way his face looked as he did it.

‘She’s not very keen on poems and that, I don’t think.’

He was watching her, listening to her words as if everything she said was of the utmost importance. There was another silence. Linda tugged on Violet’s arm.

‘It was nice, finding someone who wanted to listen,’ he said.

What she wanted to say was, please, come round again, read to me again, look me in the eyes the way you do. What she said was, ‘I’d better be going. Come on, girls.’

‘Yes, of course,’ he said, putting his hat back on. ‘Sorry to hold you up.’

‘No – you’re not!’ Why couldn’t she get the right things to come out of her mouth! ‘Only I’ve got to get these two to bed.’

As soon as they were inside the house, she said, ‘Go on you two, upstairs. Get undressed – quick!’

Muriel was out. As the girls clattered up the stairs, Violet sank on to a chair. It was only then that she noticed she was trembling.

He came round the next Saturday night.

‘I bet that’s our poem man,’ Muriel said, hearing the door. ‘I had a feeling he’d be back.’

‘Don’t be daft,’ Violet said, but her heart went racing. And he was on the step, with his book, holding it out to her.

‘You said it was too quick – hearing it read out. I thought you might like to borrow it for a bit.’

‘Oh – thank you!’

She took the book from him, excited at feeling singled out, the way she had when Miss Green had told her she was good at something all those years ago.&gn="jus A&gn=>

‘D’you think his wife knows he’s coming round here?’ Muriel said when he’d gone. She was sitting by the window, knitting in the last of the evening light.

‘Um?’ Violet fingered the binding on the book. It had been in his hands. He had stroked that cover so lovingly. Her skin prickled at the thought.

‘I said, dreamboat, d’you nae think his wife might find it a bit peculiar him coming round here to visit a couple of women on their own?’

‘No!’ Violet said. This wasn’t what she wanted to hear. More than anything, she wanted him to visit. He filled her thoughts, him with his longing, soulful eyes. It was getting so that she scarcely thought of anything else. ‘He didn’t stay, did he? I don’t think she’s interested, that’s all – in the things he likes.’

‘Vi –’ Muriel put her knitting down. ‘Can you nae see he’s after you? That’s why he comes round here – not to read his poems. I’ve seen him looking at you – it’s written all over his face. And it’s written all over yours, too. You’re going to have to be careful.’

‘Oh, don’t be so stupid!’ Violet erupted. At that moment she hated Muriel for turning all worldly-wise on her, for pointing out these hard truths. What did she know? She was younger and wasn’t even married!

‘How the hell can he be after me? He’s got a wife and three kids – and he’s not that sort, I can tell.’

‘Really?’ Muriel spoke in such a flat tone of disbelief that Violet lost her patience altogether.

‘Oh, for goodness sake leave me alone.’ She stormed into the kitchen and picked up the kettle, shouting, ‘You’re worse than my flaming mother!’

She took Muriel’s words to heart, even if she wouldn’t admit anything to her. Was it really so obvious the effect Roy Keillor had on her? She was even more struck by Muriel’s observation that Roy was sweet on her. Could that be true? Could it really?

But she tried to stamp the feelings out in herself. She just mustn’t feel like this! They were both married people – Harry was off somewhere fighting a war, in danger! She ought to be ashamed of herself. And sometimes she really was ashamed of how she felt and managed to put the thought out of her mind for a while, especially if she didn’t see Roy. He would have forgotten about her by now, wouldn’t he? And then sometimes it all came surging back, the simple longing to see him, to look into his eyes and see him look back.

She knew, as soon as she heard the knock at the door that evening after Muriel had gone out. It was only half-past seven, and she could still hear Joyce and Linda giggling upstairs, little monkeys.

Feeling strangely calm, she opened the door. The mild June air came in and the sounds of older children playing. It was the first time, she realized, she had seen him without a coat. He wore only a waistcoat over his shirt, and a cap.

‘I saw your mate walking along – thought she must be going out.’

Violet wondered who was watching. Were the neighbours peering at them, wondering if there was some arrangement between them? And why did it already feel as if there was?

‘Come in,’ she said quickly.

He didn’t hesitate. Taking his cap off, he tucked it under his arm. Once she had shut the door she turned to him, still calm. Somehow the fact that he had come to her made it easier for her.

‘Did you want your book back?’ She nodded towards the black volume, stowed safely on the mantel. She had tried to read some of the poems and liked a few of them, though most she found hard to understand.

‘Not if you want to keep it for a bit.’ But he went and picked it up, thumbing through it as if reacquainting himself with an old friend.

There was a pause.

‘I like knowing it’s here.’ He looked across at her.

Where does your wife think you are?
She knew she should say it, but that she would not.

‘The girls aren’t settled yet, but they should go to sleep soon. D’you want a cup of tea? Or there’s a drop in here – ’ She held up Muriel’s Scotch bottle. ‘But it’s not mine.’

‘No – none of that,’ he said abruptly. ‘I want to keep my head.’

She avoided his eyes, but felt her heart rate quicken.
Oh God
, she thought.
What’s happening to me?

He stood by the table as she began to make tea, busying herself with teapot and cups.

‘Sit down if you want.’ She smiled across at him but kept her tone light. ‘How’s the family?’

‘All right,’ he said quickly, then in a more considered way, ‘Yes – they’re all right.’

‘What’re you going to read me today then?’

He stared at her for a moment, then with a more gentle expression said, ‘I don’t hold with religion, do you?

Religion? Violet thought. Dark churches, boredom. She had barely ever been in church. Bessie had sent them to Sunday School, Sunday afternoons, to give her some peace and she’d sat through most of it in a dream. Otherwise it was funerals, the odd christening.

‘No – not really,’ she admitted.

‘“Dover Beach” then,’ he said. ‘By Matthew Arnold. I didn’t want to, sort of offend you, you know, if you’d been at all religious.’

‘I don’t know if I’ll understand it.’

‘You will. Some of it, anyway.’

They both sat at the table, and he started to read. She liked him reading to her, because she could look at him, at his brown eyes and thin, sensitive face. Now he had his cap off, a lock of his straight, black hair hung over his forehead. As he spoke, she saw the slight dimple in his left cheek. For three lines she was transported:

‘The sea is calm to-night.

The tide is full, the moon lies fair

Upon the straits’

The sea again! And her mind wandered and soon after she was lost, as his gentle voice moved on, too fast for her to follow the thread of meaning. Instead she just followed the musical sound, beautiful because it was his voice. She didn’t know why he thought she might have been offended by it. As he finished reading she sat quietly.

‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘And I think that’s how it is. There is no God, at least, not of a judging sort anyway.’

Violet didn’t know, not about God. All she knew was that sometimes she felt lifted, that she could circle over everything, free and high as a bird but somehow part of all of it too. And it made her grateful.

She didn’t realize she was smiling.

‘Violet –’ His words seemed to come out under pressure. ‘I can’t stop thinking about you. You’re all I ever think about – ever since I first saw you. I don’t know what to do.’

He sounded desperate. She lowered her head, her cheeks burning hot, hearing words from him that she longed to hear, could scarcely believe she was hearing, and yet was so frightened by what they might mean.