‘If you say so,’ Dickie said, running his hands up her back.
‘I’m just like this bloody war,’ Eliza sighed, ‘a phoney.’
A nice town house in Knightsbridge (‘top whack’), the owner in America for the duration. ‘Got the lease, legal and proper,’ Dickie said. ‘God, I love this war, you know that?’ Dickie smelt of money. Eliza went to the house two or three times a week. It was always someone high-ranking, an English general, a visiting American here in secret, a Free French officer, a Polish colonel. Dickie was working for the government, he thought it was a great joke. ‘You’re doing your bit for the war effort, really, that’s how I look at it,’ Dickie said to her.
Eliza was getting fed up with this life, she wasn’t going to give up the money but she wasn’t going to open her legs for it the rest of her life. Was she?
Sometimes, not often, faces became familiar. A little runt of a politician who couldn’t manage it, a fat Belgian, an admiral who only wanted to dress up in her clothes. There was an English colonel, Sir Edward de Breville, very upper-crust, who was a big-wig in the War Cabinet (‘top whack,’ Dickie said, ‘give him anything he wants’), he always brought her stockings and whisky and called her his gorgeous trollop. He said she reminded him of someone. ‘That’s what they all say, darling,’ Eliza laughed. He kissed her ear and said, ‘If my wife were dead, which unfortunately she isn’t, I would marry you.’ Sir Edward didn’t have any children, except for ‘some little by-blow by a nursemaid’ that he paid the upkeep on. ‘You’d give me a son and heir, I bet,’ he said. Sometimes Eliza daydreamed about taking Dickie’s gun and going down to the de Brevilles’ house in Suffolk and shooting Lady Cecily in the head. Then Sir Edward – very handsome and very, very rich – might really marry her. But then gentlemen rarely married their whores and Dickie would never let her go, she was his golden egg-laying goose and he’d probably kill her before he’d let her go. Life wasn’t fair, it really wasn’t.
The shelter was cold and damp and smelt of wet earth. It was completely dark. At first Eliza thought she was the only person in there and when she heard a slight shuffling she wasn’t sure whether it was a rat or a person. She flicked her cigarette lighter open, the gold monogrammed one that Dickie had given her, and in the yellow haloed flame saw a man in uniform shrinking into the corner of the shelter, his cap pulled down. Eliza said, ‘Good evening,’ and he mumbled something in reply. A distant thud of bombs outside. ‘I don’t bite, you know, darling,’ she said and lit a cigarette, ‘Want one?’ ‘Thanks,’ he said hoarsely. ‘Why are you so shy, darling?’ Eliza asked as he came reluctantly closer to take the proffered cigarette. She expected there were government warnings about flirting in air-raid shelters, but she enjoyed it.
‘Ever hear of Frankenstein’s monster?’ he asked, taking the cigarette.
‘Why, is he in here with us?’ she laughed.
‘Yes,’ the man said and pushed his cap back on his forehead. He flinched away from the lighter flame when she held it up to his face. One side of his face was livid and swollen, the skin stretched tight and shiny over the flesh. The shrunken eye had been dragged downwards by the scar tissue. ‘Shot down on fire,’ he said apologetically. In the flickering light she saw ginger hair, pale gold eyelashes and russet freckles that charted his unscarred skin. He was just a boy. A line of bombs thudded closer and the boy looked as though he was going to cry. Very gently, as if he was a wild animal, Eliza reached out and stroked the scarred skin. She extinguished the lighter and said, ‘Well, all cats are grey in the night, darling.’
Afterwards, after he’d pushed her up against the brick wall of the shelter and moaned his gratitude to her, drowned out by the noise of the docks being blitzed, he kept apologizing because she was crying, and he ‘felt an awful heel’, and he was sorry because he’d ‘never done it before with anyone’, but Eliza sniffed back her tears and said, ‘That’s all right, neither have I.’ Because really, she thought, it felt like the first time – tender and loving and, well – enjoyable, which wasn’t how she usually thought about it at all. ‘Top whack, darling,’ she murmured sweetly into his hair when he was finished.
‘Where’ve you been?’ Dickie said when she came in. ‘I thought that bloody raid had got you.’
‘Don’t be silly, darling, just doing my bit for the war effort.’
One of Dickie’s sleep-dead arms was pinning Eliza to the bed. She moved it as she leant over to get her cigarette pack. She slid up the bed and rested on the pillows. The room was lit by moonlight, dull silver patterns moved around the walls as the net curtains billowed. Eliza searched for a match. She’d lost her lighter in the shelter. It was time to get out of this whole sordid business, become a normal person. She wanted a man who loved her, protected her, children she could dote on. An ordinary life. She dragged hard on her cigarette and thought about the ugly, scarred boy. She could still feel his cool hands on her, still smell the damp bricks of the shelter, still feel the liquid warmth of him inside her.
She was awake when the siren went off. She was dressed. She had on a suit, a coat, a hat and her best pair of shoes. But that was all she was taking with her. She needed a grand gesture, walking out in the clothes she stood up in. So she made sure they were expensive clothes.
She jumped at the siren but then thought that, on the whole, she couldn’t really care less if she was blown up by a bomb. Dickie rolled over and said, ‘Bloody hell,’ but it was already too late.
The whole house shook and then again, even more violently. The noise was unbelievable, Eliza felt the house falling down round her ears, she couldn’t breathe, she kept trying to take in lungfuls of air but all she could take in was dust. The shock-wave of the blast was still vibrating in her chest, she knew she was going to die –
– she wasn’t dead. The front wall of the house had gone and she was on the ground floor, where a few minutes ago she’d been on the second. Far away, at the back of her head, Eliza could hear bells ringing and people shouting. She could smell burning. Someone was walking through the dust towards her. For a moment she imagined it was the ugly red-haired boy come to rescue her and she smiled. But it wasn’t, it was someone else. He snatched her up and carried her out of the house, straight out where the front wall had been, and placed her on the pavement. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked, his voice full of concern. Eliza put out a hand and felt the cloth of his RAF greatcoat. He took it off and wrapped her up in it, very tenderly. ‘My hero,’ she said. She looked down at her feet, she’d lost a shoe. ‘My shoe,’ she said helplessly, ‘I’ve lost my shoe.’ She’d heard of things like this, escaping death by a cat’s whisker and being obsessed with irrelevant things. It was shock, she was in shock. ‘I’ll get it,’ he said, and moved as if he was in a dream. ‘Would you?’ she smiled. ‘They were so expensive, darling.’
Her rescuer disappeared back into the building, came out with the shoe. Two firemen brought out Dickie Landers and no-one cheered. He was very dead. ‘Did you know him?’ her rescuer asked, taking off his RAF cap and wiping his brow. ‘Never seen him before,’ she said. He offered her his arm, ‘Can I take you for a cup of tea? There’s a café round the corner.’ It was nearly dawn.
‘The age of chivalry is alive and well,’ she laughed, tears in her eyes, ‘and is called?’
‘Gordon, Gordon Fairfax.’
‘Wonderful,’ Eliza murmured.
And now there was a problem.
He
was the problem. She’d never meant to take him as a lover, never meant to be unfaithful to Gordon. The Widow and Vinny, of course, thought she was out committing adultery every night, but she wasn’t, this was the first time. Really. But it was a big mistake, she had to stop it. She didn’t even like him. He wasn’t a nice person, he wasn’t … kind.
It had just been a game really, she was bored and he was there, so nearby, so keen. And the sex with him was so … dark, there was a certain attraction in that. Gordon was so … wholesome. And that had been so wonderful at first, she had really loved him. Such a hero. But he couldn’t keep on being a hero, more’s the pity. She got restless. That was why she’d taken a lover, a little bit of fun, a little bit of power. Now it was a game she couldn’t stop. She hadn’t realized how inflamed he was by her, how obsessed. How mad.
He wouldn’t let her go. She couldn’t tell Gordon, couldn’t tell anyone. She wanted to tell Gordon, wanted him to look after her, the way he always did. She was choking, she had to get some air. Maybe she could just leave, walk away and leave the whole sorry mess behind?
She loved Gordon, really she did, but he got on her nerves. He was so bloody good. And he made her feel so bloody bad. He followed her everywhere. Really, in her heart, she thought that the only person she’d ever truly loved – apart from Charles and Isobel, it went without saying – was that scarred red-headed boy in the air-raid shelter. She didn’t even know his name, had only been with him for half an hour. Less. She’d half-expected Charles to be born with scar tissue on his face, was relieved when he wasn’t. An invisible hand squeezed her heart when she thought about her children.
The old witch was driving her mad, a pair of witches, come to that. It was Gordon this and Gordon that, they had to get away from this house, live their own lives. Maybe she should kill the old witch, and Vinny too. This was ridiculous. She
was
going mad.
A picnic, it’s half-term, after all, and we’ve done absolutely bloody nothing all week. We’ll take the bus into town and meet Daddy at lunchtime and give him a surprise.
Gordon and Eliza were having this tremendous row. He just wouldn’t leave her alone, would he, chasing after her in the wood, when she needed to be on her own. ‘You’re having an affair, aren’t you?’ he shouted, his words echoing in the silent autumn air. ‘Be quiet,’ she said sharply, ‘the children will hear. Leave me alone.’
