Love Fifteen (14 page)

Theo said “I saw Dad give that policeman the handshake.”

“Not that I needed to,” Fred said, “so happens he was one of my sponsors for the lodge. So, you two, find some homework to do and, Tilda, make us a nice cup of tea.”

As they shut the door behind them, he was asking Rose if that wasn't the same chap that used to drive her to the troop shows.

After that, Rose's concert career (or comeback, as she sometimes called it) abruptly ended. There were no more requests for ‘Only a Rose' or ‘My hero'. Vince's arrest and conviction were reported in
The Evening World
but with no mention of the family.

Fred's hopes of help from the Brotherhood came good and his new itinerary gave him more weeks at home. It was, Theo said, a fair exchange for the risk of having his tongue cut out and left halfway to Lundy Island. Fred resumed a routine from their earlier years, taking Rose drinking and socialising, usually in The Shakespeare, a redbrick roadhouse beside Eastville Park, though during weeks when he was away (now only one in five), she still sampled Sidecars and Daquiris in the Morry, saying it was unpatriotic not to make our Canadian Cousins feel at home when they'd come so far to help the mother country.

In the low-lying area towards Bath, the Avon still ran beside the main line to London, sometimes veering off on natural detours but always rejoining the railway's course like a wayward lover clinging to its more sober mate. Meandering across pastures prone to flooding by the western Avon, passing the corrugated-iron boatsheds of Saltford, it was led astray by the chocolate factory of Somerdale. At last, though, the river ran off at a steep angle to be lost in the city's muddle of man-made waterways before seeping out to sea through the mudbanks of its famous gorge.

From some Commie art-teacher, Hazel borrowed one of the narrowboats along the river bank near Hanham Weir. Theo worked hard pumping out the bilges and in later years remembered the weekend as a glimpse of Hazel's Utopia. He would always be able to summon up the sounds of the whole barge creaking as the first sun melted Saturday night's frost. Or of watching through a porthole how the motion of their ecstatic acrobatics made waves lap the bank. Reliance on Inky for an alibi meant his friend had to be told the partial truth, a risk Theo felt worth taking as the weather was perfect and breakfast of buttered toast and Maxwell House never tasted better before or since than on those bright cold mornings. The church bells of Keynsham village didn't ring to remind them it was a wartime English Sunday, in fact. They didn't chime again till late 1942 to celebrate El Alamein. This embryonic colony of quaint floating dwellings was among the first of a nationwide revival that saved the canals and opened the locks for sheer pleasure.

*

To reward him for his great improvement at school, Fred bought him a ciné camera. He knew which member of the brotherhood to approach for rare pre-war film-stock and made a formal presentation of both, with Hazel present, thanking her for bringing about such a change in his son's class positions.

Almost at once Theo began shooting a record of their private lessons… Hazel half-wrapped in Theo's dressing-gown or against the net curtained windows of his parents' bedroom… automatic delayed-release shots of them both, smiling in the double-bed or on the floor of his own room… During the house-boat weekend, he added Hazel naked in the bunk, covering herself with a blanket as he approached, closing on her pouting mouth and long tongue touching the end of her nose, her eyes crossed like Ben Turpin of the Keystone Kops.

There was no chance of seeing even an inch of this footage at the time. Who could be trusted to process such an early example of the skin-flick? Once the whole length had been exposed, it remained in its can, an Index Expurgatorius waiting for his eyes only. It was to be decades before Hazel watched it, excited and appalled.

His family was shown a very different film – of family scenes and general views, though you had to be careful when you tried to shoot even ordinary wartime scenes in case some Bloody Sergeant decided a milkman's rounds could be of interest to German High Command. There were limits to Fred's Masonic immunity. In fact, Fred reported that Hitler was as down on Masons as he was the Jews. So what emerged was an arty and ambitious family snapshot, with all its priceless information about how life really looked beyond the paper-strip windows, a more edible madeleine than Proust's.

“Isn't it dangerous having that film around?” Hazel asked one afternoon as they sat doing simultaneous equations in the bay window of Villa Borghese.

“Why?”

“Well, your Dad knows which Brother can get it developed. So what if he found it and thought you must have forgotten it and got it processed without telling you, perhaps as another reward for being such a good boy… and you came home one night to find the front room all set up like the Odeon with your mum and sister and grandma, and you all had to sit there watching me in the altogether in their bed upstairs and –”

“Mum and Harry in the taxi, yeah.”

The very thought made his scrotum clench with fear.

“I don't know,” he said, “Dad might enjoy it. He keeps a nude photo from
Men Only
over his bed and came twice to see the snake-dancer.”

She shook her head.

“So,” he consented, “hadn't you better keep it in your flat ?”

“And if Geoff comes home on leave?”

“We all believe in free love, don't we? We could watch it together. If it was developed, which it isn't.”

“All three of us?”

She stared at him for some time, so that he finally asked: “You don't think he'd mind, do you?”

“Wouldn't you if you were in his place?”

“Dunno. Not sure… No.”

“I think you'll find that's unusual. Sometimes I wonder about you, really I do. You seem to have no possessive instinct.”

“Isn't that good… what we all want?”

Hazel had no answer. This was taking common ownership too far.

“Wouldn't you be jealous at all?”

He looked at her across the text and exercise books.

She asked: “Does it never strike you your lack of jealousy is just lack of feeling? Some would say you've been set a bad example. Perhaps we don't feel love for someone unless we're given lessons.”

“I've done alright for that,” he said with a smile.

“I'm talking about
love
,” she said.

“
Free
love, yeah.”

“Love's not only taking but giving too. Would you mind, say, if I was in a film like that with
another
man?”

She could see him mentally lining up the shot. He answered by asking: “What about me with another
woman
?”

“It would break my heart, “ she said.

When the
real
invasion came, no church-bells rang. They were supposed to be allies but few Englishmen saw the Americans like that.

Villa Borghese's wrought-iron front gate and railings had been taken, it was claimed, to make Spitfires, inspiring a dialogue where Theo, Inky and Jake as three F-for-Freddie types looked at the new fighter they've just been asked to fly.

“What the deuce do they call this crate, Skipper?”

“Odd sort of kite, eh Johnny?”

“I'll say. How in hell's name are we supposed to get a dekko at Fritz through all these cast-iron railings?”

“Haven't a clue, Johnny.”

“And do these eyes deceive me, sir, or is that rear-gun turret a galvanised bath?”

“Old Togger's not going to like it,” said Jake the Jew.

Then Inky would brilliantly raise one eyebrow and look at Jake askance, letting the camera and audience know he thought Skipper had cracked with the strain of so many ops.

“No, sir, don't you remember, poor old Togger bought it last week. Pranged in the drink.”

“So he did.” Solemn pause.” Jammy bugger, eh, Johnny? At least he didn't have to fly this perishing contraption. What are all these kettles for?”

Fred foresaw a serious dogshit problem as the local hounds at last gained access to the tiny and now unfenced lawn in front of Villa Borghese. He thought for a while about trying to get the house exempted from railings requisition through the brotherhood but a friend advised him it could appear unpatriotic.

Hazel volunteered for any service that would accept her. None would. Her pre-war record of I.L.P. week-end courses and summer schools made her a security risk so she became a warden. She passed on to Theo the rumour that the metal was useless as anything but railings and the whole business was only a stunt to boost morale. She said she'd believe anything of that Fascist Beaverbrook but didn't care, because the unintentional side-effect was an early erosion of privilege, the padlocked residential squares of Clifton at last opened to the people. This turned out to be a false dawn. Once the G.I.s came and made the parks into outdoor petting parlours, littering the lawns with Frenchies, wooden fences had to be put up to replace the iron ones.

But such setbacks never dampened her spirit for long and he loved her for this blind optimism. A battle lost, she'd say, but the war still being won. She quoted Oscar Wilde: a map that didn't show Utopia wasn't worth looking at.

Theo passed this on to Jake while they were waiting for old Shaw to arrive for a period of geography. And brawn-and-no brain Coxie overheard. He was always borrowing ideas from others to make out he was as bright as them. So, as soon as Artie arrived, Cox put his hand up and asked to have the position of Utopia pointed out on the globe and Artie thought he was taking the piss and had one of his brilliant outbursts like a land-mine going off, throwing the stuff from his case all over the room – books and rulers, sandwiches and apples – while creeps and sissies ran to retrieve them and Artie finally found the detention card he was looking for, which would be no real punishment for Cox, only for whichever poor member of staff was on duty the day he was kept in.

Everyone was scandalised when the orphans were evacuated and the first black Americans came to occupy their dormitories. One subjected class replacing another, Hazel said. Canadian cousin Harry, before being posted away for a training course, had warned them it would be the end of a real nice district. Tilda said again she was more scared of them blessed Doughboys than Hitler. Like any English husband and father, Fred had been concerned at the rumoured Yankee invasion, as he'd feared Americans would appeal to his wife even more than Canadians had. So it was a relief to him when the first contingent turned out to be negroes, as obviously even she would draw the line at them.

Frightened at first, shrinking back as they passed, the locals soon warmed to them, their politeness and their wealth, their sexy vehicles and tight trousers, unlimited gum and Lucky Strikes and a sensational way of marching that was more like the chorus line from a Hollywood musical. They brought the manners of sub-tropical deltas or lawless northern slums to this drizzling suburb. Theo and Inky marvelled at their likeness to the only royalty they admired – Duke Ellington, Count Basie, King Oliver and Earl Hines.

The loss of face brought about by Vince's very public arrest at last persuaded Fred to move house. Even lesser neighbours from Schubert and Gainsborough Villas smirked when they passed him and refused to give the time of day to any of the Light family. A member of the Lodge was bolting to mid-Wales, his house in Henleaze going for a song. This was Rose's Nirvana, the land of her dreams. The detached house –”‘in its own grounds!”' she told Kay and Tilda – was one of a crescent lined with flowering cherry trees and with a serving-hatch from kitchen to dining-room. It wasn't far from The Downs and, for Theo, close to The Orpheus, one of the new smarter suburban cinemas. The local shopping parade had a broad pavement with a decorative pillory and plaque notifying residents of its history as a mediaeval village. The nice neat labour-saving garden had a swing and krazee-paved terrace where she and her friend Laura Tombs could take tea. Laura and her errant hubbie lived only a street or two away. Best of all, their outlook was no longer that blesseéd Victorian orphanage with its sequence of air-raid wardens, auxiliary firemen and first coloured and then white Yanks.

At Rosemount, nothing was older than ten years.

Theo and Hazel were on the bus across The Downs to Henleaze. Dusk had given way to dark during the bus-ride from The Embassy where they'd seen
‘Down Argentine Way
' that afternoon and done a Nicholas Brothers dance across Queen's Road. Carmen Miranda's fruity hats were a promise of post-war plenty. But between the Brazilian singer and the negro dancers came stretches of tepid boredom featuring the white stars.

“It's what the Yanks believe in that interests me,” he said, “not just their advantages, but Freedom, everybody doing what they like.”

“You still think they do, after all I've told you and all you've seen at the orphanage?”

“I know they exploit the rest of the world but don't we English too?”

“Of course. That's what empires are about.”

“But ordinary English people don't get much share of all that, do we?”

“Only because it goes to Churchill and his friends.”

“Okay. So why do ordinary Yanks get so much more than us? The coloureds are supposed to be their poorest people but anyone can see they're far better off than our so-called posh in Clifton. A negro private earns more than a British officer.”

“Abroad, yes. When they want him to give his life to save capitalism. It's a different story at home.”

“No, that's not right. Even teenagers over there have got cars.”

“In films.”

“No. I read it in the Yank mags I get secondhand in the arcades. One out of every five Americans owns a car. Well, Fred's Morris is the only one in our whole avenue.”

“Not now you've moved to Henleaze. Every bungalow's got a garage and every garage a car.”

In practice, Fred's was still one of few on the road. Most were laid up for the duration, wheels removed, standing on piles of bricks, waiting for post-war petrol.

“And is car-ownership your only criterion for heaven on earth?” Hazel asked.

Theo went on: “One in seven Yanks has got a phone. But everyone in our district near Villa Borghese uses the public box or that one in the shoemaker's shop.”

“That's an economic accident. Their millionaires are richer than our lords and ladies, in terms of money. Ours value privilege more. Land. Rent. Power. For them, this war is about hanging on to their property. That's why they wanted to be friends with Hitler, thinking he could beat the Russians for them. That didn't work, so now they're pretending to fight Fascism. And they've got another surprise in store because after the war Churchill will be voted out.”

“Who says?”

“Geoff knows how the men are thinking. The soldiers want no more of all that. He's organised a Soldiers' Parliament in Cairo, the people's voice beginning to be heard. Our salvation lies with the common people, not tagging along behind the Yanks.”

Dusk was falling on the blacked-out streets as they covered the distance between Embassy and Orpheus. From the lower deck, the conductress called out the landmarks: Whiteladies Road, Blackboy Hill and, across the Downs, the White Tree. Their stop. They got to their feet and made for the stairs. This was the darkest stretch of the route, skirting the great unlit open common that ended at the Avon Gorge. From the rear window Theo could just make out a black G.I. belting after the bus like that one in the Berlin Olympics, as though his life depended on reaching it.

“Mother-fuckin' nigger!” someone shouted some way beyond him.

Theo paused on the steps, Hazel behind him. Now they could see the white soldier chasing without much hope of catching up.

“Think yo' can fuck with white women, .. just because yo' in a foreign land, boy?”

The black leapt for the moving platform. From their high position they saw that the white had stopped running and was standing in the road.

“Yo' heah me, boy?” and there came the crack of a single gunshot. A window splintered. Another shot and the first soldier fell, trying to grab the bar. As the driver braked, they were thrown forward.

“Go ‘ead,” shouted the clippie, “keep goin'!”

Theo saw her try to push the collapsed and injured body off into the road.

“What are you doing? Stop the bus!” Theo shouted, climbing down.

“No bloody fear,” the woman said, “this b'ain't no business of ours. I got my passengers' welfare to think of.”

“He's been shot,” Hazel told her, “he may be dying.”

Theo went behind the conductress, rang her bell and kept ringing like rapid fire. The clippie was more appalled by this than the shooting.

“Go ‘ead, Stan!” she yelled, “keep goin'!”

The driver accelerated, pitching off the wounded man.

“You can't leave him there,” Theo said.

“Tis Yankee business. Let they sort it.”

Hazel moved up the gangway towards the cab. All the passengers had faced front again after a brief look-round.

“Didn't any of you see that?” she asked.” A man's been shot. You must have seen the other one on the road with the gun?”

Theo stood on the platform watching and admiring her, waiting till the bus slowed enough to risk jumping off into the dark.

“You bloody cowards, you should be ashamed,” she went on, “you deserve the lives you've got, the miserable existences your bosses have decided you're fit for. And for once I agree with them. You're too bloody feeble for anything with a bit of guts to it.”

She pulled up the concertina-shade on the driver's window and knocked on the glass with her wedding-ring.

“Stop the bus, you bastard! A man may be dying.”

One of the women passengers, stung at last, said: “Them Yanks is turning this city into Chicagawl.”

“We never asked ‘em over yer,” said a man across the aisle, “They can bloody go ‘ome soon as they like, for I.”

“I don't mind them,” another said in a posher accent, “it's those white ones they brought with them I can't abide.”

The conductress followed Hazel.

“You let that light out and we shall all be bombed.”

“There aren't any bombers any more, you dunce. Haven't been for a year,” Hazel told her.

“Right, that's it.”

“And if there were,” Theo asked her, “d'you really think some Jerry half a mile up there can see some little glimmer on the ground? You'll swallow any shit they give you.”

“That's enough of that language. Off you get, you two.”

“We
want
to get off, to help that man. Tell the driver.”

As as the bus slowed enough, they both jumped clear and ran back to find the injured G.I. A jeep had since arrived near his body and two white military police in blancoed gaiters and webbing belts were attending him on the verge.

“We saw it happen,” Theo said, coming close.

“Okay, buddy. Got hit by the bus, huh?”

“No.”

“Looks like he already had a skinful.”

“No. The other one shot him.”

“Other what?”

“G.I. American Soldier.”

“A white one. We saw him fire and this one was hit and-” Hazel was saying as they lifted the injured soldier into their vehicle.

“Okay, guys, we'll handle this. Sorry you were bothered. G'night, ma'am, sir.”

And, giving them no chance to answer, they drove off the way they must have come.

Hazel was coming home on the pretext of an hour or two of maths and physics. This late, the family would either be at home revelling in Rosemount's splendour or about to arrive home from their various jobs so there'd be no chance of practical biology. In fact, when they reached the house, having walked the rest, they found Kay and Fred listening to the news. The shooting incident had left Hazel and Theo shaken and they blurted out the whole story and asked what they should do – ring the police,
The Evening Post
, or the orphanage near their old home where that dead or dying man was very likely stationed, or what? Military phone numbers wouldn't be in the directory, would they?

Fred advised them to keep well clear.

“What?” Theo barked at him, “pretend it never happened?”

“Best not get involved.”

“You're no better than those people on the bus. Eyes front and minds dead.”

“Hold your tongue, son.”

“Yeah?”

“Hush your mouth,” Fred told him.

Theo stepped up to him and put one hand across his face, the other behind his neck, as though to squash his head like an egg.