A Year of Marvellous Ways (6 page)

9

T
hey got to Missy’s lodgings before the rain
hammered down and the first of the thunder roared through the streets. Missy took his hand and quietly led him up the narrow staircase to the second floor, without Miss Cudgeon catching them and causing such a fuss like she had the week before.

What happened the week before? asked Freddy as casually as he could. But Missy didn’t answer him; she said, I’ll just tell her you’re my brother. The word irritated him.

She opened the door and motioned for him to be quiet and to take off his shoes. She placed them on an old
Radio Times
. She took his coat and hung it on the back of the door.

Make yourself at home, Missy whispered.

There was a single bed or a chair so he sat down on the chair. She went to the stove in the alcove by the window and lit a gas ring. Warmth came surprisingly fast. She rinsed her hands and filled the kettle from the sink. She unclipped her earrings and danced around him with ease. She was familiar with this scenario, with a man in her room. Her hips were practised. He felt a spasm of jealousy even after all these years.

Swap places now, she said, and she squeezed past him to get to the wardrobe.

She told him to turn round while she changed, so he turned round and took in her life. A framed photograph of Clark Gable had pride of place opposite the steel-frame bed – she obviously liked waking up to a leading man. And over by the window hung a birdcage inhabited by silence rather than song. There was a small bookshelf, too, that held shoes not books and a Philips utility radio and that week’s edition of
Melody Maker
. A large bottle of perfume sat on the bedside table together with an ashtray and a reading lamp. Under the table a hot-water bottle and a thick pair of socks and an opened can of Bartlett pears. Practicalities hidden away. This was a life that had never known a husband. A life that had never known children.

Talk to me Freddy. It’s weird you just sitting there after all this time.

I don’t feel weird.

Well, I do.

What’s the bird called? he asked, gently putting his finger through the bars.

Buddy, said Missy.

Hey, Buddy, said Freddy, and he clicked his tongue.

He doesn’t sing, said Missy.

How come?

Dunno. Just stopped one day. Never told me why.

Freddy looked at the cowering bird, huddled against its mirror. The cage was a fancy cage, more for a cockatoo or a parrot rather than a linnet. Its crimson and brown feathers looked ragged and dull next to the yellow plastic model of a perfect canary.

Well, the other one doesn’t say much. What d’you expect? said Freddy.

Missy came into vision wearing a simple green house dress, and the kettle began to whistle. You’re bloody daft, she said, ruffling his hair. He leant down and dragged his suitcase beside him. He flipped the catch and took out a bottle of brandy.

I was saving it, he said.

For what?

For a good day.

Then let’s make it an even better day, she said, and she took the kettle off the stove and handed him a bone-handled corkscrew. You look happy, she said, as she took two cups from the hooks and placed them on the side table positioned between the bed and the armchair. He uncorked the brandy and poured.

To us, she said.

He thought those two words tasted beautiful.

Missy pulled the curtains on the world outside. In the harsh glare of a bulb, next to the semi-decent hang of her dress, the curtains looked tired and ragged. Everything was coated with the dust of better days, herself included. She looked over at Freddy dozing on her bed.

She had asked him what he wanted for his supper. Surprise me, he had said. She had gone to the stove and from the cupboard underneath pulled out a real egg and she had held it up to him and said, Remember when these were like gold dust? And they’d both laughed because there was just too much to say and where do you start? Those war-drawn days, those nights, when she ran around doing a little bit of this, a little bit of that and plenty of the other. She felt a deep stab of shame. It was seeing Jeanie again that had done it. It always affected her and she placed her hand across her stomach. The feeling never really went away, did it? because it lived in the dark and was uncovered by the glare of light. And him over there on the bed, dozing like a child, he was light. Missy stopped preparing supper. She sat down and poured herself a large glass of brandy instead.

She couldn’t remember who had mentioned the bomb shelter first, her or Jeanie, but they had both been as bad as each other, goading each other on like a couple of kids. But the place was already notorious by the time they got to set foot in it, and then they couldn’t quite let it go. It was their ritual and none of their other friends knew. They kept it to themselves, like the knowledge of an infection you get down there.

The first weeks after the shelter had opened, it was chaotic and disorderly and thousands had queued outside the Exchange even before the sirens had gone off. Her and Jeanie held hands and used to walk in silence through the front doors. Other people chatted, some goofed around, families kept up the front of normality. But her and Jeanie, they didn’t talk because they knew where they were going to. Down the stairs they tottered, all made up they were, spiralling down into the dark basement where miasmic smells of old fruit and veg mingled with every type of human smell.

Families and oldies used to stay in the bounds of torchlight where songs and storytelling jollied people along. Others ventured towards black holes that governed themselves, where cards and money were lit but faces weren’t. That’s where her and Jeanie used to go. Shuffling steps towards an unsecured darkness. Towards a rare freedom. Towards the compulsive thrill of ever-ready touch.

They always knew when they had reached the area because they could smell the strong scent of perfume and cologne and cum. Missy was all nerves and weak knees. She had to empty herself before she came out because she couldn’t trust herself, not there where anything could happen.

She could never tell if Jeanie was near her because nobody spoke. But you could feel breath and sense movement behind, in front, on either side of you. Nobody lit matches or flicked lighters or switched on torches. Darkness reigned. Anonymity was respected. It was everyone’s dirty little secret and no one wanted to give it up.

She could always tell the men who had been there before. Always started with hands on hips and arse then quick up to the breasts. Jumpers were lifted high, and mouths found mouths. Mostly people tasted of booze but once towards the end, she tasted onions on a man’s breath and it was strangely lovely because she hadn’t had an onion in a while, and she had kept his mouth still and breathed in that sour, queer delight. She’d learnt not to wear knickers in the shelter, just stockings and a belt, it was easier that way. Clothes to lift up, unbutton or pull aside, nothing to be left behind on the floor. It never took long for a skirt to be raised or for a hand to reach between her legs, strange fingers soon inside her and it was a mix of shame and excitement, fear and disgust, and it was a fluid feeling that made her legs give way just as she was lifted up on to a stranger’s cock that ate at her with a desire fuelled by the constant nearness of death. She had bitten hard on suit jackets and greatcoats and tunics and had made no sound, and when it was done, when he was gone, she used to clean herself up with a perfumed handkerchief and wonder who the man had been. Not wonder if he was a soldier or anything like that, because most were – they headed straight there on leave. But wonder whether he was handsome or plain or ugly. Or whether he was a man she would never have looked at in daylight. A man who might have revolted her, in fact. In the privacy of her mind, she liked to think that he was.

And her and Jeanie weren’t friends no more. How could they be? They hadn’t expected to survive and come face to face with the other’s knowing. Fuck, she missed her. But Jeanie was respectable now. She was married to a policeman and had a kid. So her and Missy crossed the road if ever they saw each other. Or they left pubs, or raced to the lavatory. Better that way. Shame’s shame no matter what perfume you spray on it.

Freddy stirred. Missy stubbed out her cigarette and got up. She felt weary. She opened a tin of Spam and began to cut it into thick perfect squares.

10

F
reddy recognised the sound of an egg being beaten,
a can being opened, a brandy poured. He listened with eyes closed to the sounds of the kitchen because they were comfortable sounds, sounds of home and companionship. When eventually he opened his eyes, he was careful not to shift or disturb Missy’s solitude. He watched her lost in thought, drinking. Watched her chop the Spam and spoon breadcrumbs into a bowl. He watched her go to his suitcase and carefully lift out shirts and a pair of trousers, a razor and soap. He watched her unfold a piece of paper, watched her place her hand against the faint outline of her hand, hurriedly traced on a March morning a lifetime ago.

You all right? he said, sleepily.

Missy started. I was looking for some matches –

– they’re at the bottom –

– and then I got distracted, she said.

It’s all right, he said.

Nosy, actually –

– there’s really nothing you can’t see.

And she looked back down at the paper before refolding it.

I always wanted to ask, said Freddy. Where’d you go?

When? said Missy.

When you left me, he said, nodding towards her hand. I was just a kid.

Me too, said Missy and she put the folded square back into the suitcase. She said, I went to a place I wasn’t known. A place I’d never go back to.

And then?

And then I came back. Lived south and got a job at a press-cuttings agency in Fleet Street not far from where I work now. Nice job, too, it was. Made a good friend there, a woman called Jeanie, and she got me to move back east with her. That’s it, really. By the time I did, you’d all gone.

The matches are at the bottom, Missy, said Freddy.

Oh yeah, ta. She dug deep and found them hidden under a fold of amber lining. Found the grubby, creased envelope addressed to Dr James Arnold, too.

Monk’s Rise, Chapel Street, Truro, Cornwall, she read. Imagine living in a place called Monk’s Rise. Sounds nice, doesn’t it? What you got this for?

I promised to deliver it. That’s why I was at the station when I first saw you. To get a ticket.

To go to Cornwall?

That’s right. Freddy adjusted the pillows and sat up.

Who’s it from?

The man’s son.

Is he dead?

Yes.

Was he your friend?

No. I’d just met him.

And he just handed you this letter?

Sort of. He was dying and we got chatting, that’s all. I think he knew he was dying. Wanted to make sure the letter got to his old man. So he asked me.

To post it?

No, to
deliver
it.

What’s in it?

I don’t know.

Aren’t you tempted?

It’s private.

You should do it soon, you know, said Missy.

I know, he said. I was going tomorrow.

That would be the right thing.

Or the next day. Monday, I reckon. Monday’ll be the day I go, he said, and he rolled his legs off the bed and ran his fingers through his hair.

What’s this? asked Missy.

Freddy stopped.

It was a picture she held up. A composite. A collage of lips, eyes, nose, beard and hair, all cut out from various magazines, stuck together piece by piece to form a man’s face.

Careful with it, Missy.

Who is it?

No one really. But it means a lot.

Looks a bit like you.

Now you’re being daft.

Missy studied the picture. Actually, it looks like a Wanted Poster, like in those cowboy films. Stick ’em up, mister!

He raised his arms but felt uncomfortable by her laughter. It’s just a silly picture, he said, smiling. A kid made it for me a long time ago. It’s like a lucky charm, goes everywhere with me. Always has. Put it back, Missy, please.

I never knew you were so superstitious.

Yeah, well.

Who was the kid? asked Missy.

Doesn’t matter. The kid’s long gone.

Sorry, she said, and she handed him the picture.

He folded it up and put it carefully back in his suitcase. When he turned round her lips were on his.

I’m sorry, Freddy.

He leant in to the kiss, but as soon as it had started she pulled away as if the impulse was already forgotten.

They ate in candlelight. The dingy room was transformed by soft flickering light and they, too, were transformed by the semi-darkness. They sat at a table surrounded by shadows and ate Spam in breadcrumbs, served with boiled spuds and tinned peas, nothing fancy. But Freddy said, What a feast, and not even a pea was left on his plate. I could eat it all over again, he said, and he kissed her hand and she didn’t pull away because the gesture was sweet and boyish.

Freddy cleared the table and washed the dishes in the tiny sink. Missy turned the radio down low. Dance with me, was what she said. I’m no good at dancing, he said. We’ll rock from side to side, everyone knows how to rock, even you. And she lifted his hands out of the suds and he left traces of bubbles on her waist. And they rocked. From side to side. To a song about memories, those foolish things. And Missy hummed and Billie Holiday sang.

Never forgot you, Freddy.

Never forgot you, Missy.

And they rocked from side to side, eyelids closing at the familiar comfort and smell of one another. A sudden knock at the door made them freeze. Missy placed a finger on Freddy’s lips.

You got someone in there again Miss Hall?

No one, Miss Cudgeon, just me dancing with a few memories. You know how it is. And Miss Cudgeon did know how it was, because some nights her memories were loud as well, and that’s when she drank – why she drank – just to quieten and steady them a bit too.