She's Leaving Home (34 page)

At the tram she turned to him anxiously. ‘Do you honestly think there will be fighting?’

‘Yes. And, Annie, we have to hope there is, we Jews. And that the confidence the government shows in our forces is well founded.’

‘What do you mean? Nobody wants war to break out.’

‘No, but think. If we continue to make room for Herr Hitler and his stormtroopers there’s only one way it’ll end for people like you and me.’

She waited, but guessed what was coming.

‘Mass executions. Firing squads. The grave.’

‘Oh, Danny.’ Her hand flew to her mouth, her eyes brimming with fear. She took a step closer
to him. Her voice shook. ‘I’m glad you’re around, Danny. You and – and Simon, and my family. We’ll stick together and we’ll get through this. Won’t we?’

The emergency meeting of the Childwall ward branch of Wavertree Conservative and Unionist Association slowly got under way. The minutes would record in due course that ten members attended, though not that every jacket had been thrown off in the summer heat, or that both Mrs Queenie Bennett and Mrs Sylvia Bloom were hatless and had committed the unforgivable sin of not wearing stockings. Bulges around their midriffs hinted that corsets had been abandoned also. The two ladies, of indeterminate ages, sat at opposite ends of the table like a pair of bulbous book-ends, Queenie in a floral print dress, Sylvia in a cornflower blue suit. Both were obviously hot and unhappy. When their weight shifted a faint squelch could be heard down below from sweaty thighs. The secretary, tidy Mrs Myra Fitzsimmons, who was not bulky enough to need corsetry, shook her head in despair. The two must have colluded by telephone. But perhaps one should be content to get anybody to show up for politics in a heatwave.

The branch met as usual in the room above the greengrocer’s at Childwall Fiveways. It was furnished with little more than a trestle table and chairs, a filing cabinet and a battered typewriter. The table’s roughness was hidden under a baize cloth pockmarked by cigarette burns. A heap of undelivered party newspapers cluttered one corner, beneath a broken Gestetner. On the dusty floorboards lay an ancient rag rug which Myra had frequently sworn she would throw out. The light was filtered by years of dirt on the outside of the windows – unavoidable, it was asserted, on such a busy roundabout – and further reduced by blue fumes from the smokers present. Above the empty fireplace gazed down a framed print of their Member of Parliament Sir John Tilney, aristocratic and remote, while opposite hung the wartime portrait of Winston Churchill. It had been their intention for years to obtain a picture of the current Prime Minister but somehow they’d never got round to it. A space had been kept; Myra worried privately that, given the forthcoming election and the state of public opinion, perhaps they’d better get a move on while he was still in power.

Charlie Marples the chairman was the proprietor of the shop beneath. A cousin of his, Ernest Marples, had been Minister of Transport and was still MP for Wallasey. That gave Charlie status but not much else. He had removed his green overalls before climbing the stairs, but the whiff of onions and earthy potatoes still clung to him. The smell made the hot air more oppressive; dust floated in the slanted beams of the dying sun.

‘Well, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you for coming. It’s been a remarkable week.’

‘Terrible week, you mean.’ Mrs Bennett crossed herself and sniffed dolefully.

‘Aye, well, we’re not here to discuss the death of the Pope. Very sad, that. The secretary will note –’ he decided rapidly against a minute’s silence: they were Unionists, after all ‘– that condolences were expressed to communicants of the Roman Catholic Church present. We have other matters to consider.’

‘I can’t believe it of Mr Profumo,’ was the tearful response. Queenie was capable of rapid changes of tack. ‘He lied to the House of Commons. He lied to the Prime Minister. He lied to us all. And solely because of that – that –’

‘That prostitute,’ said Sylvia firmly. ‘That’s the word. A common prostitute. With a Russian boyfriend. He’s skedaddled off home quick – seen the last of ’im.’

‘What were they doing at Lady Astor’s country home, I’d like to know?’ This from Albert who had been footman to the Earl of Derby till retirement and was the staunchest Tory on the committee. He tamped his pipe with a nostalgic air. ‘Dear Nancy. She’s still alive. Did she invite them in?’

‘She’s gone doolally. But her son was there, or at least the papers say so,’ advised Sylvia,
who made it her business to know such matters. ‘It was quite a society crowd. Titled people and the like. Cavorting around the swimming pool starkers. No wonder poor Mr Profumo fell. It’d take a man of stone to resist.’

Albert stirred in indignation. ‘This ’ere Stephen Ward. Did you see him on TV last night? Said he was an osteopath, whatever that is. Denies living off immoral earnings.’

‘Pimp,’ Sylvia translated crisply. ‘Hers, and a few others too. Can of worms. She’s got a couple of nasty West Indian fellers in the background as well – one was up in court for punching her.’

The comments flowed freely as the loyal members unloaded their grimmer assessments and rolled their eyes heavenwards. It was not long before plausible connections had been established between Miss Keeler, her disappearance when a key witness in an earlier Old Bailey trial, certain allegations in the
Sunday Mirror
and the War Minister’s resignation. The whole story seemed too bizarre to be true. When Albert stuck his refilled pipe in the corner of his mouth and began to recount a yet more salacious tale from a former colleague in the Windsor household in Paris, the chairman called them swiftly to order.

‘Enough, now,’ he chided gently. ‘I don’t know what things are coming to. There’s a debate on the whole affair in the House of Commons after Whit recess. On whether Mr Profumo attempted to pervert the course of justice by spiriting the lady away, though personally I doubt it. Plus an inquiry into the security aspects. The constituency executive has suggested it’d help if we sent a message of support to the Prime Minister. Our secretary has drafted some suitable words. Is that agreed?’

‘The polls are horrible,’ Sylvia murmured to Mrs Bennett as Mrs Fitzsimmons read out the proposed motion. ‘We’re down below thirty per cent. That’s the worst since the war. And Labour’s fourteen points ahead.’

‘We ain’t gonna be in trouble in Liverpool,’ Albert intoned stoutly. ‘Don’t be daft. There’s nine seats in this city and we hold six. Labour’s only safe MPs are battlin’ Bessie Braddock and ol’ Logan in Scotland Road. Irvine holds Edge Hill for ’em by the skin of his teeth. Tories’ll be fine here.’

‘God help us if that bunch get in – they’re not much better than Communists, some of ’em. They’d abolish Church schools, the Royal Family, the lot.’ Queenie Bennett crossed herself again.

‘We don’t mention Labour in this room,’ Chairman Marples growled. ‘Now come on, ladies, let’s concentrate. The quicker we pass this motion the sooner we can go home. All those in favour?’

A hundred yards away Maurice Feinstein in his best suit and tie was seated in José’s Spanish Wine Bar, which he had been assured was the finest in town. The fact that it had been opened barely a month explained the strong smell of fresh paint, but that was in its favour since it virtually overcame the odour of garlic from the kitchen. Across the table, her face carefully made up and rosy with wine, sat Vera Wolfson in a shocking pink dress with white polka dots. Her pearls gleamed in the candlelight. Maurice was about to pour a third glass for her. His own was untouched.

Maurice felt slightly sick. Usually he cooked for himself or grabbed whatever was handy in the shop. The seafood paella, or whatever it was called, had been pungent, oily and filling. Despite his injunction he suspected it had contained
treife
– half a shrimp had caught his eye and been pushed in disgust to one side. But Vera had eaten the lot with evident relish and wiped her dish, ‘
continental-style
’ as she excused it, with a chunk of bread. Maurice was fascinated.

‘You like this sort of stuff – you eaten it before?’

‘Oh yes. You get it quite often abroad.’

He had never been further than Blackpool, nor wanted to, though a trip to Jerusalem before he died was a half-hearted ambition which would probably never be fulfilled.

‘Sylvia mentioned you’d lived abroad.’

‘Not exactly lived there.’

Vera had given no special instructions; the empty dish before her was littered with the
blue-black
shells of mussels. She was now licking her fingers. More paper napkins were called for and she wiped her hands. Her nails were a delicate shade of pearlised pink, Maurice noticed. He raised his eyes to her face. She was really attractive in the soft light. He was proud to be with her, this sophisticated lady.

Vera sighed in satisfaction. She removed a stray piece of fish from a tooth with the nail of her little finger. Her accent, refined before the aperitifs, had slipped a bit. ‘That was terrific. I’ll have ice cream for dessert. Thanks a million. My mother makes me stick to the rules at home. Gets frightfully tedious when you’re accustomed to variety like me. On board ship we had a choice of five courses, both lunchtime and dinner. Oh yes.’

He must have looked puzzled. ‘Didn’t Sylvia tell you? I was a hostess for Cunard on the big liners for ten years. Called myself Venetia – a bit smarter than plain old Vera, don’t you think? You name it, I’ve sailed in it, or to it. New York, Caribbean, Mediterranean. Round the world twice. Wonderful life. Mostly thirty days on, ten days off. And as much food as I could eat.’

‘Venetia,’ Maurice repeated with wonder. ‘You don’t look like a Venetia. I think I prefer the old-fashioned name. It suits you better.’

She laughed prettily. ‘If you like. My Venetia days are over. Please may I have some more bread?’ As he passed her the wicker basket he blurted out the query which had sprung into his mind. ‘You’re lovely and slim. Most people who go on the cruises come back – well, a bit heavier than when they left. How did you manage?’

‘That was easy. Burned it up. I was a hostess – ah, you don’t get it. I was on the go day and night. And in particular, I was a dancing partner for any single gentleman – or if, say, a passenger’s wife was poorly or not keen on the light fantastic. That’s where the championship certificates came in handy. I was the sole lady engaged, though there were three gentlemen hosts – some old widows booked a particular cruise purely to lay their paws on their favourite. Imagine!’

Maurice pushed away his plate, his eyes rounded in disbelief. He feared the next reply.

‘And you – were there men with their eyes on you? I mean, were you expected to do anything more than dance?’

Vera broke out into a peal of laughter that made the other diners twist and stare. Maurice had the impression that she was somewhat out of control. She gave his chest a playful shove.

‘What do you think? No, never. Not officially. The whole thing was
ultra
respectable. You’d get to know the guys to avoid – the word would get round. But if a chap was a charmer, and you’d spent hours in his arms, and he offered a big tip – well!’

And she rolled her eyes suggestively, then pouted.

‘But it’s behind me now. I mean, you dream some cheesecake’ll carry you off to a mansion in Georgia with dozens of servants and a chauffeured Rolls, but they never do. I enjoyed my years on the ships and wouldn’t have changed a thing but it’s finished. My Ma’s been going on at me about grandchildren and said I’d better get a move on because of my age. So here I am.’

‘Children? How many do you want?’ He might as well have asked how many sugars in her coffee. (The answer to the latter, he noticed, was two.) It was a struggle to keep up with the pace of her conversation, its twists and turns.

‘Me? None at all preferably. Can’t bear ’em. But Ma won’t be content with fewer than four. She says she dreams about babies.’

It was the kind of discussion a man should have with a putative wife, Maurice knew, but still it was a shock.
Babies?
Was he to be a father all over again? Nappies – teething? Two in the morning, pacing with a howling infant? That had not occurred to him. On the other hand, Vera was a peach. His pals would call him a lucky dog. In a dream himself, Maurice called for the bill, blenched, paid without demur and accompanied her to the door.

Around the corner they began to walk down Queen’s Drive then slowed near the traffic lights of Woolton Road. They were outside her home.

‘I’d invite you in but my mother’s there,’ Vera said archly. Her escort shuffled his feet in embarrassment. She prodded his arm. ‘We’re not far from your place, are we? Perhaps we could go there for a – nightcap.’

Maurice gazed down at Miss Wolfson. He needed to ponder much that she had said. Especially about babies and her former profession, which left him uneasy though he was unsure quite why.

‘My son’s home. Can’t,’ he responded shortly, though he knew that was not true, at least not till midnight. There would have been plenty of time had he been tempted.

Her mouth fell. Devoid of its guile it was a pleasant face; were she slightly less artificial she would be truly comely. He wondered how Vera might react if he told her so, as tactfully as possible. She didn’t need so much makeup. A good woman would listen. He resolved to try when an opportunity arose. Who knows, he told himself, she might be grateful.

Sergeant Andy Newman parked his tray at a table near the door next to Michael Levison and poured himself an ice-cold Budweiser.

‘Love the weather,’ he said. ‘If England could be like this the whole time, it’d be not half bad.’

Michael laughed. ‘Not hawf! Where did you pick that up – been in the local dives, have you?’

‘You bet. My favourite’s the Pelican in Warrington. I grant you the beer’s an acquired taste – they serve it warm, even in summer. The landlord says it’s dead these days compared with a few years ago. But I can make myself understood here. In Germany it was terrible – not that we were supposed to fraternise with the Krauts. No, gimme Blighty any day. Haw haw, what? I say!’ and he practised the typical American imitation of a high-class Englishman.

Through the open door stretched almost fifteen hundred acres of the base, flat grey land with warehouses. The biggest building was Header House which covered around three million square feet of space – as with much else at Burtonwood, one of the largest in Europe. Its main postwar task had been to support, repair and overhaul the whole of the 3rd US Air Force in Europe, which involved supervision of some thirty daughter bases scattered across England and North Wales. For thousands it had been home, albeit temporarily: by 1945 almost 18,000 officers and men were stationed there, while at its peacetime peak over 5,000 US troops and their dependents lived on the site on a three-year tour. Some of the results, particularly the sprawled ugly buildings and miles of concrete runway now sprouting grass, were permanent.