What Was Promised (16 page)

Eyes and ears and a bit put aside; that was all you needed. Only the poor and the fools would have stayed. But Dora’s father was neither, and where is he, now? Surely dead with all the rest.

It’ll pass,
Dr Rosen used to say, when Solly was trying to change his mind.
These things come and go. Think of it like Baltic weather – one day one thing, the next another. These things people say against us, Solomon, these things they do . . . they are not sensible. Sooner or later, people always return to their senses
, Dr Rosen used to say, over
Goldwasser
and cigars, in the parlour on Jopengasse.

Solly misses him. He misses Danzig itself. He thinks of it especially when he takes the boy to the river. It’s the waterfronts that bring it back.

At least they’re alive, Dora and him. At least they’ve got each other, and London . . . well, London will pick itself up. But the Law? Well, the laws are all different here. All that learning Solly did, it’s no more use here than his High German. The only learning worth a schilling is that which his grandfather gave him when he was just a boy: how to take a watch apart, tune it, and put it back together.

It’s not forever. This thing he does, it’s not a life; it’s only work, and it could be worse. There’s still time – isn’t there? – for Solly to better himself again. If this is all in the meantime, well . . . it could be worse, it could be meaner. At least he has Dora. At least he does something he likes.

What he likes best are the times like these, when you don’t even think. Your hands remember what to do. It’s as if they touch the watchwork and turn into clockwork themselves. When all you do is
do
, you don’t have time to dwell on things. Like their families, all far-flung or missing. Or like the bailiffs they put on Mrs Platt: since he sat down to work Solly hasn’t thought of them at all.

It’s a nice watch, this one. A Lindbergh-Longines. It makes a change from the Ingersolls and suchlike Solly usually sees. A man brought him the Lindbergh on Thursday: a Pole, but one of the good ones. Not a peasant. An educated man. Things must be looking up, when people like this come to him. To work on a piece like this, it’s a privilege.

It’s a better watch than Solly will ever wear himself.

He’s still at it when the postman comes. Solly pops the loupe out of his eye and bustles to the door, blinking. There’s nothing for him but one for Dora. Solly stands in the hall, squinting at the envelope. It has an Edinburgh mark, but he doesn’t know the hand. It isn’t an impressive one.

Never mind. Dora likes getting post, it always perks her up, and a perk for Dora is a perk for Solly. He takes the letter through, pops it on the mantlepiece, and forgets all about it. It will stand there until Monday morning, when Dora will come across it while she’s dusting. She will sit down alone, in Solly’s chair, and her hands will shake as she reads.

‘
Now some music for you,
’
the wireless says. ‘
This morning we have the great pleasure of welcoming back Mr Jack Simpson and his sextet
.’

‘Morning, Mr Simpson!’ Solly says, in his best flamboyant market English, and turns Jack up a notch.

*

Evening. Mary waits for her old man.

It’s late. There are few other lights still on in the Columbia Buildings’ Neo-Gothic blocks and towers: soon hers will be the last.

The girls are fast asleep. On the wireless the Home Service has finished: all that’s left is the end of the Third Programme. Still, she doesn’t mind sitting up. There’s something soothing about it, a comfort to be kept to yourself, like the softness of a worn housecoat. Mary has always been waiting for Michael. She waited sixteen years for him to find her. She has done this before, other nights, and will do so again. So much of her life will be spent waiting.

She doesn’t get enough of him. He works so hard for them, all day, and his nights, too, are often spent in the company of men. Tonight the lack of him is keen. The flat is hollow with his absence. The kitchen hems her in. Mary thinks, It’s worth any wait to have him mine, but I spend too much time in this dratted room. She almost wishes she was back out in the grey and the cold with the girls at her heels. She does wish that.

The Third Programme ends. The anthem plays out into silence. The window has misted up. The last lights are uneven stars.

On the kitchen table: an ash-tray (hers); a covered plate; two glasses; a bottle of sherry wine. Sherry is too sweet for Michael’s tastes, but it’s all she has. Besides, she likes it herself. She pours one now, to settle her nerves.

He comes in a quarter shy of twelve. He kisses her fast – brush of dank bristle – and splashes water on his face.

‘What’s the occasion?’ he asks, straightaway, without even seeming to have glanced at the bottle, and Mary shivers.

‘Do I need one?’

He turns, leans on the washboard, and laughs – one of his rare, gruff laughs – but he doesn’t say anything. It is she who goes on. ‘How was it, out?’

‘Same as ever. Old men flashing their money around, young men begging for it.’

‘I kept supper for you. It’s plaice,’ Mary says, and he comes and sits. Mary pours the sherries. Michael raises his, peers through its citrine. He is in good spirits, and she’s glad for that, grateful that the night has sweetened him.

‘What are we drinking to?’ he asks.

She doesn’t know. She hasn’t thought. ‘You choose,’ she says.

‘Health and wealth.’

‘No,’ Mary says, ‘let’s drink to us,’ and that’s what they do.

She takes another of his cigarettes and smokes it while he eats. He dines slowly, as always. Food and drink, smoke and love: her man takes them all the same way, curbing his natural appetites. She wants to talk, but she waits. Michael is like a dog with his food. It won’t help to interrupt.

‘How was Cyril?’ she asks, when he’s done, and Michael wipes his mouth. He likes Cyril no more than Mary does, the few times she’s met him. A cocksure, shifty little man.

‘Cyril was there,’ Michael says. ‘It was Alan Swan’s invitation.’

She has heard of Swan. He’s respected: not respectable. Feared. Should she be worried, that he’s courting Michael? Mary doesn’t judge on rumour; rumours are all she’s heard of Swan. You don’t know a man until you meet him. Besides, Michael can look out for himself.

‘He wants to meet you,’ Michael says, and Mary starts at the thought-echo.

‘Why?’

‘Wants to know us better. He’s keen on family, likes family men.’

‘Does he like you, then?’

‘He will,’ Michael says, ‘When he meets you and the girls.’

‘Oh no, Michael, not the girls!’

‘It might get us in his good books. They’re good books to be in, Alan’s. I wouldn’t be surprised if he put some work my way himself.’

‘Cyril might have something to say about that.’

‘Cyril’s no fool. He’s Alan’s man too.’

‘You never told me that.’

‘Well, he is, at the end of the day. If Alan went over his head, Cyril would know to hold his tongue.’

Mary begins to clear. She doesn’t want the girls meeting Alan Swan and Michael knows it. Mary will do what she has to, she’ll put on a pretty face and meet the men Michael deals with, all those they both despise – the respected-not-respectable men, the fences and spivs and mastermen – but her girls will have nothing to do with that world. Mary won’t have it.

‘There’s no hurry,’ Michael says. ‘You’ve time to think it over. Alan mentioned the new year. His house. A good spread, I shouldn’t wonder.’

His
house
, Mary thinks. She says, ‘But what will I wear?’ and Michael laughs again. He pushes back his chair and comes round by her.

‘All things being well,’ he says, ‘We’ll find you something better than cinders.’

‘I mean it!’

He puts his rough cheeks down by hers. She can see the cruel curve of his mouth, the part which has lacked all volition as long as she has known him; the single sign of weakness which is, for her, a part of him. His hands go to her waist, her ribs, running up under her breasts. Her finest hairs rise where his fingers pass.

‘You could go in mourning,’ he murmurs, ‘you’d still be the sweetest lass there.’

They kiss again. Not briefly, this time. Her throat is curved back to him.

‘Not the girls,’ she says, and he sighs.

‘Not the girls, then. Let’s go to bed,’ he adds, when he lets her go; and she wants it just as he does, but he feels her hesitation. ‘What?’

‘I had something to ask you. It’s about Mrs Platt.’

He frowns, not comprehending, nor much pleased not to. ‘They put the brokers on her,’ Mary says, ‘did you hear?’

Michael doesn’t answer. Slowly he goes back to his chair. He sees what’s coming, Mary knows, and he doesn’t like the look of it. His eyes linger on the sherry, her inadequate sweetener, and she winces.

‘I’d like to do something for her.’

‘What’s Annie Platt to us?’

‘She’s our neighbour, isn’t she? At home, we looked out for our neighbours. We did.’

Michael nods. Their talk has taken a turn for the worse, and his mood turns quickly in its wake. ‘You did,’ he says. ‘You and yours.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘What have they got to show for it? They’re poor as they ever were. Hopeless, the lot of them. They’ve no call to be giving charity, to neighbours nor strangers. What’s charity done for them? And mark me, this is London now, we’re not in Birmingham now. No one has time for neighbours, here, no one looks out for us. We owe no favours.’

It strikes home. It’s true in its way, all of it. Mary has said as much herself, of her family, all of them still in Ladywood, going nowhere, the lucky ones – the ones not bombed out – grafting to make ends meet in the threadbare rooms and houses they were born into. But she has started on Annie now, she won’t sleep easy if she lets it go, and Michael won’t let it drop if she does. Better to try and make a fist of it, to soldier on.

‘Annie’s alone. She’s no children to look after her –’

‘You reap as you sow. If we’re talking of children, now, it’s time we did something about those boys.’

‘What boys?’

‘The urchin,’ Michael says. ‘And the darkie. The girls are growing up. They should know not to play with them.’

There is a glint in his eye. Mary has roused him, has stirred the fighter in him, who always argues this way, like a maddening boy or a brawler, ducking her points, jabbing with words. She presses her hands into her lap.

She says, ‘I’m not talking about that now. I’m talking about Annie.’

‘You should,’ Michael says. ‘You put a stop to them running on the waste, you can put a stop to this. It’s high time.’

‘They’re just children, Michael.’

‘I don’t want them mixing. I want the best for them.’

‘I know you do, and so do I –’

Still they keep their voices down. It won’t do to wake the girls.

‘You used to be dead set against them. The darkie and all his kind.’

‘I’m saying they’re just children. Wait until they start new schools, they’ll go their own ways, then, you’ll see. They won’t need us telling, they’ll understand what’s best. It can wait, love, but Annie won’t. She doesn’t need much to put it right. It wouldn’t be much, I’m sure –’

‘It won’t have to be anything. You’ve never had a good word to say about her, why would you want to help her now?’

‘Oh,
Michael
! Why do you always have to be so hard?’

His eyes widen for a moment. I’ve hurt him, she thinks, surprised. There is injury in his eyes; and then it’s gone, snuffed out, and she knows she has only angered him.

He stands. Mary rises with him. ‘I’m sorry, love. Please don’t be cross with me,’ she says, and she puts her hand on his arm, but she takes it away when he looks at it.

‘You’ve the housekeeping,’ he says. ‘Give her that if you must. I’ll make it up.’

She nods, but Michael doesn’t see her. He’s looking round the kitchen – the cracks in the ceiling, the grease on the glass – as if he feels its meanness, and fear uncoils in her.

‘Where are you going?’ she asks, almost before she knows he is; perhaps before he knows it himself.

‘Out,’ he says.

‘I’ll wait for you.’

‘Do what you want,’ Michael says, and he takes his mack from the hook.

*

On Sunday they awake to snow. It’s nothing to write home about, as Solly would say, but here and there the wind makes something of the fall. Along the south side of the square it’s deep as the cream on country milk.

The snowball fighters take to the streets before the sun can thaw them. Packs of them snipe and scuffle between the water fountain and the flower stalls.

‘Throw that anywhere near here,’ Rob Tull yells at Jem, ‘I’ll thrash you into Christmas!’ And he brandishes a holly wreath until the boy scuttles off, all done up for chapel in his too-short Sunday clothes.

Pond and Iris crouch together. Iris’s not much use at throwing, but they’re both ace at not getting hit. They’re hiding behind the car in which the bailiffs sit. Floss streaks past, bellowing, with snow-melt in her hair.