Miss Carter's War (44 page)

In another room, a woman sat ashen-faced, frightened eyes looking at the television screen. Every now and then, her face crumpled into a grimace of tears, like a tiny child, and just as quickly it reverted to fearful staring.

‘Julie likes Elvis Presley, don’t you, darling?’ said the nurse.

And the sunken frame rose and momentarily gyrated as she cackled, ‘ “You’re nothing but a hound dog,” ’ then the Greek mask of grief returned and she fell back into her seat. To and fro her mind careered at terrifying speed, taking her on a nightmare ghost train.

When they eventually came across Ethel she was sitting in her cheerful room, staring blankly out of the window. Her feet were bare and her usual tight perm had grown out, leaving wisps of white hair on a pink scalp.

‘Do you know me, Ethel?’

‘Why, of course. You’re . . .’

‘I’m Marguerite.’

‘Yes, how did . . . I’m sorry . . . What was I? She’s a lovely . . .’

Ethel would start a sentence quite normally then trail off, bewildered. Since their last meeting her mind had completely fractured. She muttered meaningless fragments that Marguerite could make no sense of. It was impossible to converse with her. All communication had broken down. Marguerite resorted to a monologue about Bert and Tony. Suddenly Ethel stood up and started pacing round the room gabbling to herself, then shouting, snarling, fists clenched, face contorted with some elemental fury. Then, abruptly she stood dead still, whimpering.

‘I’m sorry, dear. She’s having a bad day,’ said the nurse cheerily.

On the train back to London, Marguerite was appalled that Ethel’s life should end this way. It frightened her. She was grateful that her body was still healthy, but what about her mind? How long before she got like that? She was already a bit odd; the talking to herself, the bizarre clothes. Maybe it stemmed from not having to bother what other people thought? She must communicate more. That’s what animals, especially humans, do. She must reach out. Exercise her brain. Why hadn’t she spoken to that woman in Fortnum’s, for instance? She must make an effort. She looked around the compartment.

A man was typing on one of the new fangled portable computers.

‘You look busy,’ she said.

He seemed alarmed.

‘Yes, I am – very,’ fingers flying over the keys.

She tried again.

‘Not long ago only women typed and it was considered a rather lowly occupation. Now men do it on their wonderful new gadgets and it’s considered very smart. Interesting that, isn’t it?’

The man sighed.

‘Madam, I am afraid I am too busy to engage in a debate about feminism at the moment.’

‘No, no, that wasn’t meant as a criticism. It’s rather wonderful that—’

‘Please, madam, I have to finish this report before we get to London.’ And he twisted his body sideways to present his back to Marguerite.

Not to be defeated, Marguerite addressed a young man seated on the opposite side, wearing earphones, his head nodding in rhythm to the ‘tsk-tsk’ sound that came from them.

‘What are you listening to?’

He ignored her.

She tried again, this time waving to attract his attention.

‘Is it good?’

Seeing her hand the man lifted one earphone from his ear.

‘Er?’ he said.

‘It must be lovely to take your music with you wherever you go. I’m thinking of getting one of those things. What are they called?’

‘Sony Walkman.’

He looked her up and down fearfully, picked up his bag, and moved swiftly to sit several seats away, as though fleeing the plague.

It was not an encouraging start, machines being preferable to her conversation, but she resolved to make further efforts to make new friends and perhaps seek out some from the past. To keep herself sane.

Chapter 47

As Marguerite was leafing unenthusiastically through
Time Out
, an event caught her attention: the Queen Mother was to unveil a statue of Sir Arthur Harris, chief of Bomber Command, to which Jimmy had belonged. It seemed possible that he would attend – if he was still alive – and Marguerite could maybe catch a glimpse of him and even, after all this time, when the blood had cooled, have a conversation as friends.

Out of respect for an occasion to be attended by the Queen Mother, Marguerite made more of an effort with her toilette, donning one of her old schoolmistress frocks that hung loosely over her diminished frame. She put her hair up with combs and essayed some lipstick, but wiped it off again, remembering the incongruity of the woman in Fortnum’s. She carefully wrapped a gift, on the off chance that Jimmy would be there.

Marguerite had visited St Clement Danes before, on one of the long walks she sometimes took to pass the time. Lapsed Catholic that she was, she enjoyed sitting in the quiet of these ancient places of worship, savouring their calm amidst the turmoil of the city. This one was particularly affecting, marooned as it was on an island in the middle of the Strand, encircled by the distant roar of traffic. She relished the bitter irony of this new statue. Built by Christopher Wren, the church was almost completely burnt down in the Blitz, and then was restored by the RAF to be a memorial to the dead, and now it was to be home to a statue of the man whose strategy of mass bombing had caused decimating firestorms that laid waste to much of Germany.

By the time Marguerite arrived, a crowd of protesters had gathered on the pavement opposite the church where dignitaries and ex-RAF personnel were attending a service. One home-made placard proclaimed, ‘Bomber Harris is a war criminal and a mass-murderer.’ Another, held aloft by a child, said, ‘War is not healthy for children and other living things.’ Supporting their large wooden model of a dove, standing peacefully behind the barriers in the warm sunshine, were several grey-haired people, and Marguerite wished she were one of them. Had she not met Jimmy, paradoxically on a CND peace march, and heard his story, she might have been.

The service over, Marguerite searched the faces of the small congregation in their best clothes emerging from the church. Jimmy would doubtless have changed, as had she, in twenty-odd years, but she was sure she would recognise him. Especially if he were smiling. Her eye fell upon one distinguished bald-headed man who seemed to be looking for someone. It took her some time to realise it was Stan, no longer shambolic and humble but exuding an aura of success. Marguerite watched as the neatly dressed woman with him, sharply tapped his arm to stop him peering round and pointed to the Queen Mother, plump and pretty, wearing a pale blue floral dress and wide straw hat, her white-gloved hand resting on the arm of a medal-and-gold-braid-bedecked RAF officer.

Her gracious smile froze as the crowd round Marguerite started to boo and throw eggs. The demonstrators were some distance away so their missiles landed in the road, but a policeman in shirtsleeves sauntered over to the most vociferous group and said mildly, ‘Now now, ladies and gentlemen. I think that’s enough, don’t you? You’ve made your point.’ A young man with a beard, wearing jeans, shouted, ‘OK, people, let’s be silent and remember all those who died. On both sides.’ Heads were bowed, and over the traffic could be heard the Queen Mother’s piping voice as she remembered with ‘pride and gratitude the men in Bomber Command’ adding loudly, glancing across the road at the egg throwers, ‘Let us remember, too, those of every nation and background, who suffered as victims of the Second World War.’ This was greeted with a smattering of polite applause.

Then Marguerite saw him. A man wearing a leather sheepskin-lined flying jacket walked unsteadily across the road, weaving between the traffic, and when he got to the island, opened a shooting stick and, sitting with his back to the now unveiled statue, took a swig from a hipflask, before training a pair of binoculars at the porch of Australia House opposite. Two policemen rushed to his side, but hesitated. They chatted briefly and then, following his pointed finger, and using the proffered glasses, looked up at the sculpture of a very explicitly naked man, with four horses curiously lying down with their front hooves waving in the air. Jimmy, his thick hair greying and with a bit of a paunch, but still dashingly handsome, had the policemen roaring with laughter, until a superior officer rushed up to them, and barked an order. The policemen quickly grabbed Jimmy and were frogmarching him away, when Stan broke from the astonished onlookers and, after a brief chat with the constables, led a laughing Jimmy across the road, to cheers from the crowd.

Marguerite caught up with them, and watched as Stan angrily pushed Jimmy into a doorway.

‘You stupid bastard. What did you think you were doing?’

‘Well, it’s a more amusing work of art than a statue of Butcher Harris.’

‘You were insulting the Queen Mother and all our comrades.’

Jimmy shouted, ‘No, they were insulting us. By paying tribute to a man who misled and destroyed 50,000 of us, and untold thousands of Germans. If they want to give us a statue, I’d rather it was that bollock-naked man and his daft horses than that bastard.’

‘Jimmy, you’re drunk.’

Jimmy drew back his fist as if to punch Stan, and Marguerite stepped forward.

‘Jimmy, don’t.’

Both men wheeled round. Jimmy, clinging to Stan, turned his head away and muttered, ‘No, no, not you. Go away.’

Pushing him off, Stan said, ‘Miss Carter—’

‘Marguerite, Stan – please.’

‘Marguerite, I’m sorry to do this to you, but my wife will kill me if I don’t get back – will you take over here?’

Jimmy roared with laughter.

‘God yes, she’ll have your guts for garters for being with me, the cow.’

Stan ignored him.

‘Will you take care of him, Marguerite? I seem to remember I asked you that once before.’

He kissed her on the cheek, gave a despairing look to Jimmy, now swaying, moaning, with his face covered by both hands, and rushed off up the Strand.

‘There he goes – back to Mummy. He used to be free like me, now he’s a bloody accountant with a detached house in Tunbridge Wells.’

‘Right, Jimmy. Let’s get some coffee down you.’

‘I’d rather have a drink.’

‘I’m sure you would.’

She found a quiet café in one of the back streets.

‘Have you eaten?’

‘Not today. I don’t do a lot of eating.’

Marguerite ordered him some fish and chips and a pot of black coffee. After a while, he put down his knife and fork and stared at her. There it was – the crooked smile.

‘I can’t believe it’s you. Still as beautiful as ever. Sexy—’ He reached to take her hand. She snatched it away.

‘Jimmy, stop it. Don’t be a fool. It’s me, remember.’

‘Sorry, old girl. Old habits die hard.’

Marguerite looked at his shaking hands.

‘How are you keeping?’

‘Oh I’m fine. Busy – you know.’

‘Doing what?’

‘Oh the usual. Ducking and diving. Make a bit on the horses. Thus the gear.’ He indicated the shooting stick and binoculars.

‘Sounds chancy.’

‘Oh, some you win, some you lose.’

She looked at the frayed cuffs on his shirt, which she had first noticed when she took off his flying jacket.

‘Yes, sorry about the shirt. I put this old one on because I thought I might be arrested. No point in dressing up for jankers.’

‘Why did you do that, Jimmy?’

‘Oh I don’t know. Bit nutty really. It was for my muckers. All the stuff that’s come out since the war. The top brass, the politicians, Churchill, all that “let them reap the whirlwind” stuff. And we believed them. That it was necessary. Then I saw an exhibition of photos of Dresden after the raids. I’d imagined it in my nightmares but it was worse. The total desolation, the burnt bodies, the women, the children. We created hell on earth. I did.’

Now she took his hand.

‘It’s war, Jimmy. It’s filthy.’

‘Yes, there’s not many of us left who remember just how filthy. The “We won the war” shit. It started again with the Falklands. “Gotcha”. Obscene. At what cost? Eh, Marguerite, who are the heroes, eh?’

‘Jimmy, you have to move on. It’s over.’

‘Yes, but they keep trying to mythologise it all with statues and ceremonies. Turning it into a time of glory. The British at their best. “War criminals. Mass murderers”. That’s what those people in the street said. I used to think it was unfair to say that, but not any more. It’s no excuse really, but I was only a lad, doing what I thought was right, but the men in charge, including Harris, were adults and should have known better. Anyway, enough about me. What about you? Tony? Donald?’

When Marguerite told him about their deaths, Jimmy was aghast.

‘How come I’m still living and they’re dead? Natural selection doesn’t seem to be working. I’m afraid I have to have another drink. Can we find a pub? I’m a bit of an alkie, you see.’

‘Apart from your betting, how do you pay for your drinks, Jimmy?’

‘Oh you know, a bit of this, a bit of that. Bar work.’

‘No rich girlfriends?’

‘Not rich, no. ’Fraid not. I’ve gone a bit downmarket. I work for an escort agency occasionally. Old girls from the sticks who’ve lost their husbands one way or another and need someone to accompany them to the theatre or a meal. They’re lonely, poor old things. No hanky-panky, I’m afraid. I’m game, but they’re usually not.’