Lover (17 page)

No sense wondering who'll be next—could be me. No reason why it shouldn't be. That puts the wind up the new ones all right, when one of the experienced pilots goes for a Burton. Some of the new ones won't last five minutes anyway. I can't put my finger on it, but there's a particular type—a natural victim, like that tart. You can see it straight off. I don't know about Sinclair, I just know I don't want to talk to him. He wants to have it all down pat. Play by the rules. I said to him, ‘There aren't any rules. There used to be, but there aren't any more. It's not a bloody cricket match.'

He blushed like fury, then looked at me all innocent and said, ‘It doesn't matter, you know.'

‘What doesn't?'

‘What school you went to.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘It's rot. Schools, who your people are, all of it.'

I said, ‘What do you know about my people?'

‘Nothing. But it doesn't matter.'

‘Oh, bugger off.'

Doesn't matter. Of course it bloody matters. He went to a decent school, didn't he?

Like Rodney Bowers. He lived down the road from us, where the good houses were. I can see him now, standing in front of his big, half-timbered house with the neat garden, his trunk in the driveway beside him, waiting to be driven off to school for another term, and me, squatting in the leaf mould, staring through a gap in the hedge at what I wanted—what I
should have had
—and thinking it should be me,
me
, not him, but instead I went to the local dump and came back day after day to a cramped, shabby life of putting up and making do and no space or time that wasn't filled with my stupid, dribbling cretin of a sister, what she needed, what she wanted, so I couldn't go to a good school or have anything new. And Bowers just took it all for granted, that he should have what I did not, in that easy way those people have as if it's their birthright, when it should have been mine.

We'd go about together in the holidays, and it was easy to make him do things because he was younger than I was…the two of us in our garden, up a tree, pelting Maisie with apples. She was about sixteen then, a formless, tented lump on the grass, gazing up with eyes like currants folded in dough, twisting her head round, not understanding what we were doing up there, crying when the apples hit their mark and trying to crawl away. When I tired of that, we went down the lane and found a dog turd on the path and I persuaded Bowers to scrape it up on a seaside spade and creep back to the garden and throw it at Maisie over the hedge. She sat there, shrieking, red-faced, with shit in her hair and Mother came out and caught Bowers and marched him back to his house in disgrace and told his mother what he'd done. That got him in trouble, all right. I remember seeing his face, and knowing that he wouldn't pass the blame to me.

That reminds me: there's a letter from home in my pocket. It came yesterday, but I forgot about it. I almost threw it away— it'll only be news of Maisie. Mother wouldn't write for any other reason, unless it was for money. Either way, I shan't read it. I'm just surprised she could be bothered at all. One of the first things I can remember her saying to me was, ‘Oh, you won't have any success in your life.' Even when I joined the RAF, it just made her angry—she'd said I'd never amount to anything, and I'd proved her wrong. She said it was irresponsible. I might ‘get myself killed', as she put it, and then who'd look after Maisie when she was gone?

Anyone else would have put her away years ago. I asked Dad once, why they didn't, and to hear him talk you'd think Mother was some sort of saint. He said it was her life's work. Not that she ever had any time for him, either.

Maisie can't even recognise her, that's the stupid thing. She can't do anything, except eat. Everything goes in her mouth. Mother was always telling me I was lucky to be so healthy with Maisie like she was. It was just as well. I was always having to do without so she could have some extra treat. Dad didn't have an overcoat for fifteen years, because of her. Probably what did for him. He should have told her. Letting her walk all over him, her and that great lump, feeding her face, gnawing her knuckles if there wasn't anything else, and everything
her, her, her
.

‘We must make sacrifices.' She
liked
making sacrifices. Liked being pushed to the side of her own life—made a fetish out of it, and she wanted us the same. She liked going round with her clothes all threadbare, saving money on groceries, cheapest cuts of meat, and always talking about it, drawing attention to it. There was nothing decent in the house. I was ashamed to bring anyone home; school was bad enough. Rushton's sister's a loony, that's what they used to say. And she was always saying, ‘It's not Maisie's fault', as if it was
my
fault.

One year we had a wasps' nest at the top of the house. Maisie got stung, and from the way Mother carried on, you'd think she'd been killed. I went up to look at it the next day, and I got stung too, but of course that was my fault and nothing was made of it. Then I heard her tell one of her friends I'd been making up stories and I'd never been stung at all—as if I wasn't entitled to have anything happen to me, not even a wasp sting.

It was always like that. They never wanted to know anything about me, either of them. Don't think I'd have existed if it hadn't been for Maisie. All Mother wanted was someone to help look after her. Even Dad drew the line at that.
She
was disappointed I wasn't a girl—that would have been easier. But Dad never stood up for me. Never. ‘You'd better do as she says.' We should have put it on his headstone.

I used to put flour on Maisie's face, for powder. Rub it on all over, except round her mouth where she kept licking it off. She'd try to grab the bag and cram all the flour into her mouth but I wouldn't let her. Then she'd start to scream. Everything in her face would bulge, straining underneath the coating of flour, and the
noise
… I wanted to stick my compass in her.

Mother always expected me to fetch and carry for her, clean up after her. Great stupid
lump
. All those years, the dullness of it. It was as if I was standing in a corner, facing the wall, unable to turn round, and the world was a tiny, narrow space, with no interest, no proper life. But when I learned to fly it was as if I was suddenly facing the other way, looking out.

I don't expect that I shall live long, and the reality is, I don't want to. I know there won't be anything for me when this is all over, just a world in which I am always out of step. I'm not going to read this letter. Why should I? I'm throwing it away. I'll look at the paper, instead. It's yesterday's but it'll do.
RAF bag 46 in 5 attacks
…
Boy, 12, Saved Dog, Will Get Medal
…
The Bomb Squad That Saved St Paul's
…
Cathedral Gives Thanks for 5 Heroes
…
Don't put that schoolgirl complexion away ‘for the duration'—Palmolive soap still costs only 31/2d a tablet
…
Soho Girl Strangled
—What's this?
Police surgeons have established that the blonde Soho dance hostess, Edith Parker, was strangled. Miss Parker, 26, was found murdered in her flat in Gresse Street, London, on Saturday. The killer committed further injuries with a poker.

I must have read it through three times before I realised. Strangled…injuries from a poker. Bit of a jolt, seeing it in the paper like that. It must have been…what? Thursday that it happened, but already it seems like a dream I had and can barely remember. Took a while to get reported in the paper— perhaps they didn't find her straight off. It's funny, because I can recall the place, but not her. It's the room that's in focus, the old-fashioned mantelpiece, dark wood, standing in front of it—dust on it—small table beside the bed, the feel of the little mirror in my hand. It all seems more real than she does. And there was an eiderdown—blue—with marks and spots, as if someone had spilt tea or soup or something. I threw it over the bed before I left. Edith Parker. Odd to think of her having a name. It seems far away now, not important. It says here she was blonde. Strange to see it reduced to this, like a combat report: all the intensity of it, the sensation, gone, and it's just words on paper. Funny how you can do something that you can't explain or describe. I don't feel a connection with it, much. As if it happened to someone else. Funny altogether. But I'll keep it, all the same.

Nothing much else in here. Mathy's still sounding off about that bloody car. Nice day today, blitzy weather. I ought to empty my bladder before we get called again…

Edie's a blonde, dilly, dilly; My true love was red; But when it gets dark, dilly, dally; She'll do instead…

That's better. Too much tea this morning. I don't want to get caught short.

Don't see many redheads. It ought to be a brunette next time, really. For balance. But soon, because there's not much time left.

I
haven't felt much like going out to work these last few days, to be honest. Lily and I agreed to meet in The Black Horse before we started this evening, to buck ourselves up a bit. All the old girls go in the Ladies' bar, but they don't like us in there, so we go to the public room instead. There's a barman there, Walt. Poor chap had some operation on his face as a nipper and one of the nerves got cut by mistake, and he's got one cheek paralysed, with a droopy eye and his mouth screwed up so he only talks with half of it, but he's nice enough, and he's been sweet on Lily for ever so long. It's a bit pathetic, really, because he never says much, but whenever she comes in his face lights up—well, the part that works does—and he stops whatever he's doing and runs over to serve her. Every time she speaks to him, even if it's just to say ‘thank you', he looks that pleased, and he's always got some little present that he pushes over the bar, quick, so no one can see. I did ask Lily once, if she'd ever gone with him—you know, when she's working—and she said he'd never asked, so I suppose he likes to keep it a bit romantic. It's sad, really, but you haven't got a lot of chance with girls if you look like he does.

This time he'd got Lily some artificial flowers to pin on her frock. He said he'd heard about Edie and he was sorry, and then he went and cleared a table for us in the corner so we could sit down. I was joshing Lily about him, trying to cheer us both up because I wasn't exactly relishing the idea of going out to work, and I knew she wasn't, either, when she suddenly opened her bag and pulled out a scrap of newspaper. ‘You seen this? It was in Tuesday's paper.'

‘Let's have a look.
Police are hunting the killer of Edith Parker, a twenty-six-year-old former dance hostess, who was found strangled in her Soho flat yesterday.
Doesn't say anything about the other business. Perhaps Bridget was making it up.'

Lily shook her head. ‘Who'd make up a thing like that? Anyway, they've got it all wrong. Edie was only twenty-three, not twenty-six, and she didn't live in Soho, either. Oh, Rene, it's horrible. I told Ted I didn't want to come out, and he was ever so nice about it, but then he went out and I thought I'd better come. I mean, there's the rent, and…you know.'

‘Come on, Lily. You know how Edie was. Weak in the head—you said it yourself. I don't like to speak ill of the dead, but it's her own fault if she got into trouble. Look at the way she went off with that chap from the shelter.'

‘He offered her three pounds. I heard him.'

‘There you are, then. Double the money—you know what that means.'

‘No French letter.'

‘You wouldn't have gone with him, would you?'

Lily shook her head.

‘There you are, then. You've got to know how to handle them, that's all.' She still looked doubtful, so I said, ‘Come on, Lil, it's all right. We'll look out for each other, won't we?'

‘I suppose so. But Rene—'

She never got any further, because some idiot, stinking like a distillery, plonks himself down at our table. I was about to say, ‘Do you mind?' but he cut straight in with, ‘How's Henry?'

I said, ‘I don't know anyone called Henry.'

‘Well you should, he's your husband.'

‘Not me, dear, I don't have a husband.'

‘Yes you do.' He thumped the table. ‘Henry.'

‘No, dear. You're thinking of somebody else.'

‘Have you divorced him?'

‘How could I divorce him when I never had him in the first place?'

‘Poor Henry, fancy getting divorced…'

This was beginning to get on my nerves, and I was about to tell him so when Lily jumped up, saying, ‘Oh, I can't bear it! Bloody men, all the time. Why can't we have some peace and quiet?'

He turned to her and said, ‘Are you going to marry him, then?'

‘Who?'

‘Henry! You couldn't do better. Straight as a die, he is. Don't know what's the matter with
her
,' jerking his head at me, ‘divorcing him like that.'

Lily said, ‘Oh, get out of my way,' and made to push past him.

He put out a hand to stop her and I thought,
here we go again
, when I heard someone say, ‘This gentleman giving you trouble?'

I thought, I know that voice, and sure enough when I turned round there was the warden, Harry Nolan. He took the man by his arm and said, ‘Time to go, mate.' Lily and I got behind the table pretty sharpish at that, expecting trouble, because he was a little runt of a man, and with Harry being so big, well, that's when they're usually spoiling for a fight, wanting to prove themselves, but he didn't say a word. Just left, quiet as a lamb. We thanked Harry, then Lily said she ought to be going—despite what she'd said, I reckon she was worried in case Ted came in and saw she wasn't working. I was about to go with her, when Harry asked if he could buy me a drink. I thought, oh, why not? I could do with a bit of Dutch courage, and besides, it's not often I meet a man I actually want to pass the time of day with, free and gratis, so I might as well enjoy a bit of decent company for a change. I told Lily I'd catch up with her, and sat back down again.