The Decision (5 page)

Since Scarlett and Matt had been out in the world, she’d been able to retire as she put it, but in a way she missed getting out of the house and having at least a few shillings of her own. Although she’d never had any money for clothes she managed to look as if she did. She was clever at sewing and made herself blouses and dresses from fabric she got at the market, and studied the fashion pages of
Woman
and
Woman’s Own
carefully every week.

Today she was wearing a pair of narrow black trousers and a black sweater, as made famous and fashionable by Audrey Hepburn. She did her eye make-up like Audrey’s as well, with thick black eyeliner and heavy eyebrows and had now had her hair cut urchin-style like Leslie Caron in
Gigi
. She was very much influenced by the cinema: Scarlett had been named after Scarlett O’Hara. Sandra had read
Gone With the Wind
while she was pregnant and been deeply affected by it, and only some very firm words from Peter Shaw had prevented her from calling their firstborn son Rhett.

‘But he looks just like him,’ she had said, gazing down at the squinting eyes and black hair of the baby. ‘He’s going to be really dark and handsome.’

Peter had told her that no son of his would have a sissy name like Rhett and Matt, when he was told, was extremely grateful to his father.

Scarlett arrived home just after six, rushing in looking crisply businesslike in her navy uniform, engulfing Matt in hugs and kisses.

‘Oh, it’s so lovely to see you. Mum’s been so worried about you, thought you wouldn’t survive.’

‘I’m fine,’ said Matt, ‘course I am. And it’s great to see you too, Scarlett.’

They were very close. There were only seventeen months between them – ‘then Pete found out what was causing it,’ Sandra would explain with one of her earthy giggles – and they had grown up practically as twins. Scarlett had the same thick, dark hair as Matt, the same large dark eyes, set off by absurdly long eyelashes, the same straight nose, the same neat, sharply carved jaw. She exuded vitality as Matt did; she was quite small and very slim and irrepressibly energetic. She had inherited her mother’s eye for clothes and she would devour the fashion magazines noting trends and what they called fashion tips. She had always attracted attention wherever she went, and still more so now, with the sophistication of her new career; indeed the week before she had been photographed at the local dance hall, jiving with a girl friend, a dizzy whirl of flying ponytail and circular skirt, complete with layers of frilled nylon petticoats – all bought in the market and starched with sugar water – and glorious whiteteethed grin. It had appeared in the local paper and Sandra had framed it and hung it in the front room.

Matt was younger than Scarlett, but he had always protected her in the school playground when they were little and guarded her against predatory boys when they grew older, and she acted as dating agent for him, as his good looks turned him into a magnet for her friends.

He was inordinately proud of her and her career, it was a big leap for a girl from Clapham, from a secondary modern. Being an air hostess was about as good a career as a girl could hope for. As good as being a private secretary, only with more prestige. The uniform, the foreign travel, the dashing pilots.

But she had thrown herself into her application, done a Linguaphone course in French, having heard that a second language was a big advantage, and she had a talent for sweeping people along with her enthusiasm, making them believe in whatever she was saying, which had stood her in good stead at her initial interview.

Matt had said he thought you had to be posh to be an air hostess, but Scarlett laughed.

‘Matt! I can be posh. If I try. You know I can.’

This was perfectly true; she had a sharp eye and a distinct talent for the social climb. Her accent could move from Clapham Junction to nice suburban at will, and she knew precisely when and how to tone down her rather exuberant manner.

‘So – what we going to do tonight?’ she said now. ‘I thought we might go to the Lyceum, if you feel up to it.’

‘Course I do.’

They had a good time at the Lyceum; Scarlett invited her friend Josie along, as well as Malcolm, her on–off boyfriend, hauled in when she needed him, dropped again when she didn’t.

Josie liked Matt, in fact she fancied him rotten, and she was fun. Matt had a couple of beers with his dad at the pub before they left and a couple more when they arrived at the dance hall. Exhaustion and the excitement of freedom doubled their potency; he danced the evening away through a haze, not only with Josie, but with several other girls as well.

At one stage he felt sick and dizzy, and had to go outside; Josie followed him, sat down on the steps with him and put her arm round him.

‘Poor old soldier,’ she said. ‘I know what it’s like there, that basic training, me brother did it last year. You must be all in.’

‘Nah,’ said Matt firmly, ‘I’m fine. Thanks.’

‘That’s OK.’

She turned to him, pulled his face to hers and pushed her tongue into his mouth; it was a bit of a surprise, but very pleasant. Especially given the hazy feeling. They staggered up the street a bit, found an alley where he kissed her back very thoroughly and pushed his hand up her sweater onto her breast. Josie seemed to like that. God, he’d forgotten what they felt like, breasts. Hadn’t had the energy to think about them even, the last few weeks. After a while, he moved to her bottom, which was firm and extremely responsive; he felt her grinding her hips into his and he pushed his hand gingerly up her skirt, feeling his way towards her panties. But this was forbidden territory. She pushed his hand down again.

‘No, Matt,’ she said, suddenly sober.

He didn’t care and returned to her breasts. He knew the rules. He’d done pretty well, he thought, really. Later, going home on the tube, she sat with her head on his shoulder.

‘It’s been really nice,’ she said sleepily. ‘I like a soldier boy.’

Matt grinned at her.

‘Same again next leave?’

‘Yeah. What do you think?’

When they got back to the camp, they felt like old timers. There was a new intake of raw, terrified recruits; Matt went out of his way to speak to a few in the NAAFI, and tell them it wasn’t too bad.

‘It suddenly all begins to make sense, you’ll be OK.’

‘You heard about poor old Happy?’ said Charles when he saw him. ‘He’s being sent off to Fattening Camp.’

Happy was their nickname for the undersized Walton, partly as reference to his size (‘You could play one of them dwarfs,’ Nobby Tucker, a Geordie they had befriended, had said one morning), partly his sunny nature.

‘What!’

‘Yeah. They say he needs building up. Might get deferred. Poor sod.’

Being deferred was the ultimate nightmare; it meant getting returned to a new unit. Which meant losing your mates and a dreadful sense of going back to square one.

Fattening Camp was on Salisbury Plain, near Aldershot; men who were particularly thin and unfit were sent literally to be fattened up.

‘But ’e’s as strong as a bloody ox,’ said Matt.

‘I know. Try telling them that, though.’

‘Poor old bugger.’

Men were being hauled out now to do their USB (Unit Selection Board). It was the first screening for POM (Potential Officer Material); mostly predictable, anyone who had been to public school and a few wild cards who showed the necessary leadership qualities got picked, and those who passed would be sent off to do the War Office Selection board, known affectionately as Wosby, at Andover.

Charles was summoned together with the one other public schoolboy in the hut; so to his delight were Matt and a couple of others. Matt went off to, as he put it, ‘blind them with my fucking potential’. He was pretty confident; if anyone had the gift of the gab he reckoned he did.

The USB procedure was an interview with the CO, no more than that. Matt failed. The only non-public-school boy who passed was a grammarschool boy, who spoke what was known as BBC English. Matt was very upset and angry; Charles tried to comfort him.

‘They probably didn’t like your ugly face. Doesn’t mean a thing, really.’

‘Yes, it does,’ said Matt bitterly. ‘Why else would that wanker Johnson get through?’

‘Well,’ Charles hesitated. ‘Well, I s’pose it was just … just luck.’

‘No, it fucking wasn’t. It was because he’d been to fucking grammar school. Knew how to talk and that.’

‘Oh. Matt, I’m sure—’

‘No, it’s me that’s sure. And you know something? I could have gone to grammar school. I passed the scholarship. Only my parents couldn’t afford the uniform. Mum was really upset. But Dad just couldn’t do it. I even ’eard them talking about borrowing the money from somewhere. I wasn’t having that. So I told them I didn’t want to go, wanted to go to the secondary modern with me mates. Complete lie, I wanted to go. Course I did. And if I ’ad I’d be going off to do my Wosby with you. Not fucking fair, I tell you.’

‘No, it isn’t,’ said Charles and was surprised to find how indignant he felt on Matt’s behalf. ‘Come on, Matt, I’ll buy you a few beers.’

But Matt was filled with a black rage that lasted for days.

Two weeks later, Charles was sent off to do his Wosby. Having not only the right background, but demonstrably the right qualities – namely an instinct for leadership, a sense of comradeship, a practical intelligence and a clear lack of intellectual pretentiousness – he enjoyed it hugely and passed outright. Attending with him was Nigel Manners, who had been at Eton with him; on the last night they got mildly drunk together in the mess.

Manners said he seemed to remember Charles had a ‘jolly pretty sister’ and Charles said indeed he had. ‘Baby of the family. I’m very fond of her. She had a rather successful Season.’

‘Really? Good for her. Quite a good lark this, isn’t it?’

‘It is. Find your basic training OK?’

‘Oh – you know. Not bad. Better than school.’

They both laughed.

‘Good chaps in your unit?’ asked Manners.

‘Some of them, yes. One really bright bloke. He should be here really.’

‘Yes? Why isn’t he?’

‘Because he didn’t go to the right school,’ said Charles. ‘And he’d be a bloody fine officer. Sometimes I think it’s not fair, all this stuff.’

Manners stared at him.

‘Good lord! You’re not a pinko, are you?’

‘Not really,’ said Charles slowly, ‘but knowing Shaw has changed my mind about certain things. He’s a good bloke through and through.’

‘Well, he’s obviously an exceptional fellow,’ said Manners, ‘but – it’s jolly difficult, isn’t it? I mean, would you introduce him to your sister, for instance?’

‘What – socially?’ said Charles. ‘Oh, no, I don’t think I’d go that far.’

‘Matt, this is my sister, Eliza. Eliza, Matt Shaw, comrade-at-arms.’

‘Goodness. How very military. How do you do, Mr Shaw?’

‘Fine, thanks,’ said Matt, taking her outstretched hand. He stood there, staring at her; he felt an odd sense of disorientation, without being at all sure why. Tall she was, Charles’s sister, with dark hair tied back in a ponytail and big blue eyes; she was wearing narrow black trousers and a black-and-white check jacket, which swung open to reveal a black sweater, clinging quite closely to some extremely nice rounded breasts. The hand he held for that moment was warm and smooth, and the smile she gave him had a slightly mocking edge to it.

‘I hope you’re not off to some battlefield now,’ she said, taking back her hand and he was aware that he had held onto it for just too long and felt foolish. ‘No, not just yet,’ said Charles. ‘Rather the reverse. Three days of serious relaxation for both of us; but Matt and I came up together from Warley, and I thought you might be able to drop him off at his place. I told him you were meeting me.’

‘Well, of course I will. Where—’

‘Really, it’s not necessary,’ Matt said, pulling himself together, suddenly desperate to be away from them, to escape from a situation he felt illogically uncomfortable in. ‘I can get the bus, easy—’

‘Of course we’ll take you,’ said Eliza, taking Charles’s arm, reaching up, giving him a kiss. ‘I’m taking Charles to see my new flat, so it’s fine. Where do you live, Mr Shaw?’

‘Matt, please. Well, Clapham, not too near your flat, Kensington I think Chas said it was—’

‘Chas! Is that what you call him? I like it!’ said Eliza, and Matt felt slightly patronised. ‘No, honestly, I’d love to drive to Clapham, I’d take you up to Scotland if you wanted. I’ve got this heavenly new car, it’s a Fiat 500, I can hardly bear to get out of it even.’

‘How on earth did you afford that?’ said Charles. ‘If Pa bought it for you I’ll feel very badly done by.’

‘Of course he didn’t,’ said Eliza, ‘it was a present from Gommie. You know how she loves to spoil me—’

‘Wish my godmother loved to spoil me,’ said Charles. ‘What colour is it? Come on, Matt, don’t look so nervous, she’s not that bad a driver …’

As if that was what he was nervous about, Matt thought.

The Fiat was parked just below Waterloo station, in The Cut; it was navy blue. ‘There she is,’ said Eliza, ‘love of my life. What do you think, Charles?’