The Way Ahead (18 page)

‘That’s ’em,’ said Daniel, pointing to one tin. He already knew a lot about the factory’s sewing-machines and the right kind of needles. ‘I’ll take a hundred.’

Mr Broom spilled a quantity from the tin into one dish of small brass scales. He weighed them, added a few more and said, ‘That’s a hundred, or d’you want to argue?’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Daniel, ‘and in any case I wouldn’t argue with an expert. Would you put ’em in a bag, Mr Broom, as I don’t think it would be clever to slip ’em as they are into my trouser pocket. They might vaccinate my leg. Listen,’ he went on, as Mr Broom transferred the little gleaming heap into a brown paper bag, ‘if in a few years you thought about selling your shop, I might consider buying it.’ Daniel was very much the son of Sammy. He was in regular touch with his cousin David, Uncle Tommy’s son. David had ambitious ideas, and Daniel reckoned that together they could make a profitable go of something like a hardware shop. ‘Would an offer interest you, Mr Broom, at the right time?’

‘Seeing I’ve decided I’m going to die in here on me feet,’ said Mr Broom, ‘perhaps you’d like to wait
for
that to happen, when Hi might leave the shop to you in me will.’

‘That’s a really kind thought of yours, Mr Broom, and it won’t hurt me to exercise patience,’ said Daniel. He took the bag of needles, paid for them, said a perky goodbye to the proprietor and left. He began his long walk back home, whistling as he went. It was another breezy day and walking was an invigorating exercise. He turned right by Camberwell Green and made for Denmark Hill. Buses rumbled by and trams clanged in a way reminiscent of pre-war days. Camberwell had known German bombs, but the Green was intact. He began his ascent of Denmark Hill. He crossed to the left-hand side after leaving Ruskin Park behind. A girl on a bike passed him.

‘Hi,’ she said as she went by.

‘Watcher, Bubbles,’ said Daniel.

She stopped and waited for him to catch up.

‘How did you know my name was Bubbles?’ she asked.

‘Just a guess,’ said Daniel, and she looked at him. He didn’t seem to have much flesh on his bones; he was close to being skinny, but he had a clean, fresh look and the kind of blue eyes that could make some girls blink. ‘Good guess, was it?’ he said.

‘No, you boobed,’ she said, and cycled away.

‘Gladys, then?’ called Daniel, loose-limbed and quick-moving.

Again she stopped and waited for him to catch up. She was wearing a white woollen pull-on hat over dark hair, a summer dress of ivy green, and
fully
-fashioned nylons. Pert hazel eyes and a small retroussé nose gave her a saucy look.

‘Gladys?’ she said. She had an American accent. ‘You sure that’s a name?’

‘I’m positive,’ said Daniel.

‘Nuts to positive and to Gladys,’ she said, and rode away again.

‘Betsy, then?’ called Daniel, and again she stopped. Again he caught her up.

‘Patsy,’ she said.

‘Patty?’

‘Patsy. You deaf or something?’

‘Patsy, not Betsy?’ said Daniel. ‘You look more like a Betsy.’

‘That’s it, get cute,’ she said.

‘Not my style,’ said Daniel, ‘and in any case, I’m on my way home for a cup of tea and a slice of cake, if there is any. The war’s ruined the regular availability of homemade cake. Still, nice to have met you, Betsy—’

‘I don’t know what all that means,’ she said, ‘but I’m Patsy. Don’t I keep telling you?’

‘Patsy, right, I’ll remember,’ said Daniel, and went on his way. She kept up with him, wheeling her bike close to the kerb. She had slim, vigorous legs that made easy work of climbing the hill.

‘I guess you want to know where I come from,’ she said after a while.

‘Brighton?’ said Daniel.

‘Brighton? Brighton?’ She obviously thought that a daft guess. ‘Brighton, you said?’

‘Down in Sussex,’ said Daniel, thinking she ought
to
be spoken to by her dad for talking to strangers. Mind, he knew that a lot more people did talk to strangers these days, especially after an air raid. It was a kind of coming-together due to everyone being in the same rocky boat. ‘I’m only guessing.’

‘Try Boston,’ said the girl.

‘Boston, Lincs?’ said Daniel, not stopping in his walk.

Still keeping up with him, the girl said, ‘Boston where?’

‘Lincolnshire,’ said Daniel.

‘My Boston is in Massachusetts,’ she said.

‘Got you,’ said Daniel, ‘you’re an American girl.’

‘Patsy Kirk.’

‘Kirk?’ said Daniel.

‘You’ve got something against that?’ said Patsy.

‘No, should I have?’ asked Daniel.

‘It’s OK with you, then?’ said Patsy.

‘Fine,’ said Daniel.

‘Are you in the Army?’ asked Patsy.

‘I’m not eighteen yet,’ said Daniel.

‘You look as if you could be, and you could say you were,’ said Patsy.

‘Well, I’ve got a grandmother who’d knock my head off if I did,’ said Daniel.

‘Couldn’t you sneak off without telling her?’ asked Patsy.

‘Some hopes,’ said Daniel. ‘Can I confide in you?’

‘Oh, please do,’ said Patsy, ‘I’d be thrilled, wouldn’t I?’

‘Well, Grandma gets to know everything,’ said Daniel. ‘She’s the kind of second-sight character you come across in books about Ancient
Rome
. You’ve heard of Ancient Rome, have you?’

‘Sure I have,’ said Patsy, ‘and I’ve heard of Nero too, but I’ve never heard anything about Ancient Rome grandmothers with second sight.’

‘Well, I’m glad to be able to inform you that Ancient Romans revered their grandmothers, whose second sight was useful when Caesar’s army was going to war, which it often did,’ said Daniel. ‘Even Nero revered grandmothers. After he poisoned his own, he made a special offering to the gods, sacrificing a dozen Ancient Briton slaves. Generally, Ancient Roman grandmothers gave all the orders and all the people obeyed, and if they didn’t their grandmothers flung them to the lions. Horrible sight it was, believe me.’

‘I’m not believing any of that, you dope, not a single word,’ said Patsy.

‘It’s your own funeral if you want to stay ignorant,’ said Daniel.

‘If you think I’m going to believe old Roman grannies threw people to the lions, you’re crazy,’ said Patsy. A bus passed, going up the hill, while she and Daniel walked on in chummy fashion. ‘Of course, I know Nero was a homicide, but he didn’t really poison his grandmothers, did he?’

‘Alas,’ said Daniel.

‘What did you say?’

‘Alas, he did,’ said Daniel.

‘Oh, you kook,’ said Patsy, ‘alas is archaic.’

‘How’d you spell it?’ said Daniel. ‘Listen, Patsy, Nero put arsenic in his grandmothers’ lunchtime helping of jellied eels. The poor old dears fell dead off their couch after only three mouthfuls. Then—’

‘Hey, slow down,’ said Patsy, ‘I’m not believing jellied eels. What are they?’

‘Cylindrical lumps of eel cooked in jelly,’ said Daniel. ‘My cockney forebears loved ’em.’

‘You’re disgusting, d’you know that?’ said Patsy. ‘And so are your forebears. Still, I kind of like the way you talk. You’ve got a musical tone.’

‘Eh?’ said Daniel.

‘Sure,’ said Patsy. ‘Have you ever thought about being a singer? You could develop into a great baritone. They’re favourite with me, baritones. How much farther is your home?’

They were halfway up the hill, a residential thoroughfare of handsome properties.

‘It’s still a bit far,’ said Daniel. He stopped then, stepped off the kerb and relieved her of her bike. ‘How far do you have to go to your own home, Topsy?’

‘Patsy,’ she said. ‘How many more times? And it’s Danecroft Road.’

‘That’s only a little way on from me,’ said Daniel, and gave her a more interested look. He still wasn’t sure she ought to talk to strangers, but then he hadn’t yet discovered Americans were a gregarious people given to offering friendship at the drop of a hat. He’d lived as an evacuee in a quiet Devonshire village, away from American Army training areas, for most of the war. Deciding this particular female American was likeable, he said, ‘I’ll push your bike for you.’

‘I’d like to know your name first,’ said Patsy, as they stopped. ‘You might be anybody.’

‘Yes, so I might,’ said Daniel. ‘As anybody, I could give you a false name, then set about you and pinch your bike.’

‘You wouldn’t do that, I read you as a good guy, even if you’re unbelievable about Nero’s grannies,’ said Patsy. ‘So what’s your name?’

‘Daniel Adams.’

‘Adams?’ said Patsy. ‘That’s a proud name in Boston. If you remember, when we licked you in the War of Independence—’

‘No, I don’t remember,’ said Daniel, ‘I wasn’t there. But I daresay it hurt a bit.’

‘While we were fighting you,’ said Patsy, ‘John Adams, a lawyer who practised in Boston, did such a great job for the cause of our independence that he became the second President after Washington.’

‘Was John Adams English?’ asked Daniel. ‘His name sounds as if he was.’

‘Well, I guess he might have had English parentage,’ said Patsy, ‘but being born in America, he was American.’

‘D’you mean that if you’d been born in China, you’d be Chinese?’ enquired Daniel.

‘I’m going to find out if I can sue you for saying a thing like that,’ said Patsy. ‘In Boston, folks still talk about heroes of the Revolution like John Adams and another Adams, Sam Adams.’

‘I don’t think we ever talk about them over here,’ said Daniel. ‘Bad losers, I suppose,’ he said with a grin. ‘Well, good old Boston. See you there one day. Say when I’m a travelling baritone.’

Patsy took a new look at him. She thought even
when
he was standing still, like now, he had a supple energy that issued vibrations and made him kind of doubly alive.

Patsy Kirk was nearly seventeen, the daughter of a radio newsman. Her mother had been a lawyer, but tragically, in March 1941, lost her life in a car accident when driving herself to her office. Her father, grieving, decided a change of background would help, and received accreditation from his radio station to go and cover the war in Europe from London. He took Patsy with him, but because of the air raids had sent her to a boarding-school in Somerset. Other American girls, mostly daughters of resident diplomats and military attachés, were there, forming a sisterhood to rival the cliques of snooty English girls. Patsy quickly took the lead, which frequently meant being carpeted by the principal.

‘You’re a troublemaker, Miss Kirk.’

‘Me, ma’am?’

‘You. You have a problem. What is it?’

‘I just wish this was a co-ed school.’

‘A school for girls and boys?’

‘Yes, I like boys better than girls. Boys are fun guys. Girls – well, they’re just girls.’

‘But better behaved than boys, allowing for exceptions. You’re an exception, Miss Kirk. You, in fact, are a holy terror.’

However, it was said with the hint of a smile. Further, Patsy gradually adapted and made many friends among the English boarders, who invited her to their homes during vacations, where she sometimes had the thrill of meeting elder brothers
on
leave from the Army, Navy or Air Force, and wished herself old enough to swan around in pink satin while blowing smoke rings after every puff on a cigarette in a long holder. That, she imagined, would wow the British Army, the Royal Navy and the RAF. She was probably right. The flappers, the Bright Young Things of London in the wild Twenties, had wowed a nation in such a way.

Patsy had finished her schooling last autumn, and because German air raids had become less worrying, her father allowed her to come and live with him in his rented apartment, which the English called a flat, in a large house off Denmark Hill, in South-East London. He commuted from there to town at all times of the day and night in an old English Ford banger, since his work was governed by the events of the war and by the broadcasting facilities available to the American Press Corps in the sandbaggy heart of London. But when he could relax, he did so in the apartment, and was delighted now to have Patsy there. Patsy, a versatile and affectionate daughter, did whatever housework and cooking were necessary. Her Pa said he liked living among the people of the host nation, and residing out of town helped him to avoid the prolonged drinking sessions so favoured by overseas newsmen. Liquor was ill-received by his sensitive stomach.

Patsy made up her mind about her new acquaintance.

‘OK, Daniel,’ she said, ‘I think I like you, or that I could get to like you, so you can push my bike for me.’

‘Ta for the privilege,’ said Daniel, and his mouth
spread
in a good-natured smile, a smile that she liked.

They resumed their walk, Patsy recounting at length all the details of how she and her dad crossed the Atlantic in the
Queen Mary
to England after her mother’s death, how they toured bombed London, and experienced the frightening ordeal one night of their first air raid. This made her Pa send her off to some gruesomely stuffy boarding-school just for girls, where she had to organize other American boarders so that they could form a united front against the English and sock them silly on dormitory raids.

‘We licked ’em,’ she said.

‘Any blood?’ asked Daniel.

‘You bet,’ said Patsy, ‘and it earned us their respect. I’ve got lots of English girl friends now.’

‘We all need friends,’ said Daniel. The occasional bus hove into view, and the occasional car. Other than that, Denmark Hill seemed peaceful, even if a few ruined houses were a stark reminder of a murderous war. ‘Would you mind telling me how old you are?’

‘Eighteen,’ said Patsy. ‘Well, seventeen, I guess. Well, nearly seventeen.’

‘Would your father like you talking to strangers?’ asked Daniel.

‘Strangers?’ said Patsy. ‘Oh, you mean talking to you. But there’s the war, you have to talk to all kinds of people, and you don’t seem like a stranger to me.’

‘Do I strike you as being honest, upright and trustworthy?’ asked Daniel.

‘Sure, and cute as well,’ said Patsy.

‘Cute?’ said Daniel, and laughed.

‘Oh, some guys can be really cute,’ said Patsy. ‘By the way, Pa says this war’s going on for ever.’

‘Tell your Pa to keep that sort of opinion to himself,’ said Daniel. ‘Mr Churchill discourages that, y’know. It’s—’