Heart of War (98 page)

He eyed the managers benevolently. He'd got 'em where he wanted 'em … looking forward to making a lot of money, because they were all sharing in the profits of their own stores and of H.U.S.L. overall; afraid of him, because they knew he was a wide boy, wide enough to hire experts to catch 'em out if they cooked the books, or did a lot of pilfering on their own accounts. They were going to hire the best people they could find, and see they did their work, because they'd lose their own profits if they didn't … and, before you could say Jack Robinson, their jobs, too.

He stuck his thumbs into the waist band of his trousers, pushing up the waistcoat to do so. He said, ‘I'm going to America next year. They've got chains of stores what make little us look like children playing “Shop.” I'm going over to take a look-see. When I come back, we'll do what they do, only better – before they get a chance to come over 'ere and take the bread out of our mouths, with bigger stores, more
money, lower prices … Before I go I'm going to divide the shops into areas, and appoint Area Superintendents so soon you'll be reporting through them, and they'll be putting the ginger into you. It'll cost me a packet, but it'll be worth it … And we'll have a new headquarters. This is too small … 'cos though there'll be Area Superintendents, I'm going to get all the managers together once a year, at least, and that'll need a bigger place than this. Anyway, we're going to 'ave a bigger accounting department, with all sorts of ruddy electric machines … the buying department will be centralized in the new place … the inspection department, the secret service … my spies, see? … sales department, what decides on what we're going to sell in all the H.U.S.L.s and 'ow to do it, and then tells you … personal department, no, that ain't right,
personnel
… finding new people to put in
your
jobs when I give you the sack, 'cos you're not making enough spondulicks … Well, that's about all. Miss Meiklejohn, ring for taxis for these blokes – and ladies.'

‘They're here now, Mr Hoggin,' the secretary said. ‘Eight of them, waiting in the drive. Everyone will have to squeeze into those. The London train leaves in half an hour.'

The managers were all on their feet. One tall thin man near the back called out, ‘Mr Hoggin … sir … will this new headquarters be in London? It would be more, ah, convenient if it were, would it not?'

‘It might,' Hoggin growled, ‘but it ain't going to be. Rates there is too bloody high, by a long chalk. And they'll keep going up. No, it's going to be here … close to.'

‘Oh, that'll be good,' the man who had spoken said with sycophantic enthusiasm.

The room slowly emptied, Hoggin standing by the desk, watching, thumbs in his trousers. Miss Meiklejohn went out, closing the door behind her. A moment later it opened with a bang and Hoggin's wife Ruth rushed in, followed slowly by the bent, creaking form of her mother, Jane Stratton. Ruth hurried up between the chairs to face him, then gasped breathlessly, ‘Bill! I have wonderful news! I'm going to have another baby!'

Bill took his thumbs out of his trousers and clapped his hands together, ‘Hey, Ruthie, that's good! Though why it didn't come sooner, I don't know, the number of times I bang you.'

‘Oh, Bill! … I'm three months gone, the doctor thinks, and that's what I say, too.'

‘You're sure, then?'

‘Yes! Oh, Bill, isn't it wonderful?'

He took her in his arms then, and hugged her, and smacked a kiss in the middle of her forehead. He leaned back, holding her at arm's length. ‘All right, then, but this time I'm going to name the little bugger. No more Launcy Lotties.'

‘Oh, Bill.' She sank forward, nestling her bosom against his bulk.

‘I'm so happy for you both,' Jane Stratton said.

The door opened and the frigid voice of Miss Meiklejohn cut icily through the room. ‘Swallowford's men have come to remove the chairs, Mr Hoggin.'

‘Well, tell them to fucking get on with it,' Hoggin said, hugging his wife. Wait till New Year's Day and would he give
her
a surprise!

Alice Rowland stretched her wooden leg with an audible creak. It hurt sometimes – sometimes, a lot – but she loved it, loved the creaking of its knee joint, the harness that attached it to her thigh and waist. Leaning over the little table beside her she poured a cup of tea and, reaching across, handed it to her visitor – Mrs Dave Cowell.

Mrs Cowell was not weeping at the moment, but she had been, both before coming to the house, and for the first quarter of an hour of her visit. So far she had not said much, for the maid had been in and out with the tea, poking the fire, drawing the curtains against the winter dark … and she obviously had something private and personal to share with Alice.

Alice said gently, ‘Well…?'

‘He's gone and joined up, miss.' The frumpy hat was askew, the skirt wrinkled and dragged up one side, the face mournful and tear stained.

Alice said, ‘Dave has joined up?' Mrs Cowell nodded. ‘But he's over age.'

‘For being conscripted, miss … but he's volunteered.'

Alice thought, Dave didn't believe in the war; he was antimilitarist; his family had no Service tradition; why had he done it?

As though answering her question, Mrs Cowell said, ‘It's
nothing to do with the war, miss –
I
think … he's done it because he can't abide to live here without seeing you. He's hardly spoke to me since … since I told him you'd promised not to see him again. I don't think he wants to live at all.'

‘Had he got a job … employment? I saw that he had been dismissed from the school because he allowed the No-Conscription Fellowship people to use his classroom for a meeting.'

‘He did odd jobs, miss. Tutored boys – and girls – for exams. But he didn't make as much as he used to … and that wasn't much.'

Alice sipped her tea. Mrs Cowell did the same, then took out a handkerchief, dabbed at her eyes, and began to cry again. Through the handkerchief she sobbed. ‘He says he'll be made an officer. They told him that at the barracks as soon as he joined up, so he is in a special course up there now, like an officer recruit.'

‘That's good,' Alice said.

Mrs Cowell's weeping became louder, ‘Oh no, miss, officers get killed more than the soldiers … the lieutenants and 2nd lieutenants do, and that's what Dave'll be, isn't it?'

Alice thought, she's come for comfort; but what comfort can I give her? Dave's gone and may never come back – to either of us.

Again as though speaking to her unspoken thought, Mrs Cowell mumbled, ‘If I'adn't come to you, an' said you shouldn't go with him, he'd still be home. We'd both have him … instead of neither.'

Alice was about to reassure her but thought, that's just what I was thinking; why deny it? Would it have worked? Perhaps, perhaps not. But it couldn't be worse than this. She had kept to her promise, not to see Dave again. But that had not kept him out of her thoughts, her body. She loved him, wanted him, and needed him.

Mrs Cowell said, ‘I heard you were going to work for the Aircraft Company, miss.'

Alice nodded, ‘I am, starting in the new year, I've passed my accountancy exams, and I'm very much looking forward to it. I don't mean I'm a Chartered Accountant – that will take years – but I've started toward it.'

‘How are you going to get up there and back, miss?'

‘I am buying a motor tricycle.'

‘And live here, with Mr Harry?'

Alice said, ‘I suppose so … I don't have much to do with running the house nowadays. Mrs Stallings is housekeeper as well as cook … if she ever decides to retire, heaven knows what we'll do.'

Mrs Cowell took a deep breath and her voice quavered as she spoke, ‘Miss … when … if Dave comes back … will you … I want you to see him, please see him … for my sake … he loves you, miss, I know it … An' you love him, don't you?'

Slowly Alice nodded, ‘I do … I shall never take him from you, though.'

Again Mrs Cowell took a deep breath – ‘If …
when
… he comes back, we could live in one 'ouse, miss. It would be yours, and Dave and I would be like butler and housekeeper, to other people, or perhaps they'll take him on again at the school, but … we'd be together … and I could look after you proper, cook, clean, push you round to places you couldn't go by yourself … I'd like to …'

Alice found that tears were welling in her own eyes. She said, ‘Thank you … do you know, I've never heard your Christian name …'

‘Daisy, miss.'

‘You are a saint, Daisy.'

‘You'll do it, when, if …?'

Alice said, ‘We must wait until …'

‘ – he comes home!'

‘… and find out whether we, and he, really want it … can make it work.'

Ethel Fagioletti sat in the tiny parlour of the little house in Soho, reading the letter, tears streaming down her face. Niccolo had never had a proper teacher, or school, what with his parents bringing him here from Italy, then having to learn English as well as history and geography at board school, all at the same time. So his letter was hard to read. But it was the first she had ever had from him that he had written in his own hand; the few earlier letters had been written for him by an educated soldier, Niccolo said. This was precious for that alone, and now that she had struggled through its misspellings and erasions and rewritings it was doubly clear. She read it again.

Dere Missus Fagioletti, I am saf I am platon sarjant to
Mister Kate I lok after him he is a yung gent his cusn captin roland was kilt send me three ceks for crismus for men mi platon they ar god men mosli the CO ses I can sta on afte war if I wonto beta than wating eh im sori i send you away becas i luv you and we will have babi when war ove

She hugged the letter to her breast, crying happily. He had truly come back to her at last, his heart as well as his body, as she had always known he would – he must – because she loved him. Their brief time together in the Grosvenor Hotel on his last leave had been different from anything before. No baby had come from it, but after the war, there would, when there was time, time to love gently, not those furious, desperate attempts to forget the trenches. When he came home for good, then … why, he'd be Sergeant Fagioletti here in London, or Hedlington, not just in France! What a strange idea! What was the world coming to? But she must not leave matters to chance. They
must
have a baby. But who could she trust to help her? The gypsy women on the Heath always promised you'd have a baby, and gave you bad-tasting stuff to drink, and took your money – but mostly nothing happened. Why … Probyn Gorse's Woman! Everyone down there knew she'd get rid of babies, if she felt like it. But Ruth had heard it whispered that she could also ensure that a woman had one. She'd go and see her, as soon as …

There was a knock on the door, and she went to open it. A tall young woman with dark blue eyes and brown hair stood outside, a large leather suitcase resting on the pavement beside her. She said, ‘Mrs Fagioletti?'

‘Yes, that's me,' Ethel said. ‘But …' She peered more closely – ‘You're Lady Helen Durand-Beaulieu! I've seen you!'

Lady Helen nodded, smiling. ‘I am … I heard that you had a room to let.'

‘That's true, milady, but …' Ethel stopped, puzzled. How could her room concern Lady Helen?

Helen said, ‘I would like to take it … May I come inside?'

‘Of course, milady.' She hurried back in, fluffing up a cushion. ‘Sit down, milady. You look tired … Did you say you'd like to take my room?'

Helen said, ‘Yes, but first … I'm going to have a baby, Mrs Fagioletti. The father was killed before we could be married … '

‘Oh dear!' Ethel wailed. ‘You poor lady … Oh, oh, oh, it was Mr … Captain Charles!'

Helen said, ‘It was. I want to find a quiet place to live … work that I can do in the house… I only have a few pounds now, but I expect I'll get some more soon. And I'll have to change my sugar card, of course … Probyn's Woman is coming up to help me have the baby. After that – I don't know.'

‘Oh, milady, of course you can have the room. It doesn't matter about money. I'll look after you, I'm a good cook … learned to cook some of those Italian things, too, for Niccolo … he's a sergeant now. We've been married again, by proxy.'

Helen said, ‘Thank you … You're very kind. May I call you Ethel?'

‘Oh, please, please.'

‘And will you call me Helen?'

‘Oh, I couldn't, milady.'

‘Please! … Helen Rowland – Mrs Rowland, a woman whose husband has just been killed in action in France.'

Isabel Kramer faced Christopher Cate across the fireplace and said, ‘Christopher, this is my last visit here.'

He stared at her; not comprehending. Then – ‘You mean you don't like the village people knowing, or guessing, that you are my mistress?'

She shook her head. ‘I'm beyond caring what the village people think, my dear. And I never did care what the people of Liverpool or London think … It's what
I
think that has made up my mind. I can no longer bear these separations. Our meetings and our times together are such heaven that the partings have become proportionately deeper hells. It is like having a piece carved out of my flesh each time … Virgil has obtained passage for me on the S.S.
Mystic
, due to sail for New York from Liverpool a few days before Christmas – probably the 21st.'

Christopher said at last, ‘I can't blame you.'

Tears began to form in the corners of her eyes, then, but her voice was still steady when she said, ‘I was going back to the States in any case, to see my son, Walter, before he is sent overseas. He's just been drafted into the infantry, as a private soldier. He refused a commission. I shall not return to England.'