At the Break of Day (19 page)

‘I’m so glad you could come,’ Rosie said, leaning forward and kissing her powdered cheek.

Mrs Eaves smiled. ‘I’ve missed you, young Rosie. Is it going well? The job, I mean.’

Rosie nodded. ‘But I miss you and the girls.’ It was true. She did.

‘And will you stay over here, now your grandpa’s gone?’

Rosie looked at Harold who was pushing cake into his mouth. There were crumbs on his chin and his glasses were crooked.

‘Yes, I’ll stay but when Jack goes I’d like to visit back there.’ She wanted to go, but more than that, much more than that, she didn’t want Jack to leave. She couldn’t imagine life without him, not for eighteen months. But at least he would be safe. There wasn’t a hot war now, only a cold one, and you had to volunteer for the dangerous postings.

She had another drink. She mustn’t think of April, of losing him too. She moved from Mrs Eaves, back to Jack and the warmth of his arm as he held her closely to him.

In April Jack heard that he had to report to the Ministry of Labour and National Service. He woke up Rosie, throwing stones at her window because Norah and Harold would play hell if he woke them by banging on the door. It was still cold and Rosie, wrapped in her cardigan, stood at the back door and laughed while he held her, kissed her, because she thought he was just impatient to see her but then he told her the news.

She felt cold inside at the thought of the months without him. Haven’t we all been through enough, all we children of the war? Haven’t we spent enough time away from the people we love? What did their Lordships want – our souls too?

‘Don’t go,’ she said. ‘You can’t go.’

She was holding his sleeve, tightening her grip, pulling at him.

His face was still pinched and pale as he kissed her, held her, and the lines from his nose to his mouth were deep but his smile was the same.

‘Don’t worry, my little Rosie. Trust me. I’ve got to go and see someone I know to try and sort something out before I report. I’ll come back later. Don’t worry.’

But she did worry. She forgot to water the plants at work. She made mistakes. She couldn’t eat and wasn’t interested in the letter which had come this morning from Frank. Frank was worried about the turn events were taking in Europe with the Berlin Blockade and the possible murder of the Czech Foreign Minister, and, worst of all from an American point of view, Truman’s guarantee that US troops would step in in case of Soviet aggression in Europe. What did she care what was happening out there in this crazy world when Jack might be leaving her?

But then all afternoon she did care because was Frank saying there might be another war? She was tired. The world was mad and Jack was leaving as Grandpa had done.

He was waiting for her in the garden on her return. He had been taken on as an apprentice by old Jones. A phoney apprenticeship but at least his National Service would be deferred and he could stay home and look after Maisie and Lee.

‘And you, Rosie,’ he said, his breath warm in her hair.

Rosie held him, breathing in the smell of his skin.

‘But Jones, you hate him. He’ll squeeze you dry, rub your nose in it.’

‘I know, but it’s worth it to make sure Mum and Lee are all right. Dad hit Mum again last night. I don’t understand him any more.’

That night Rosie dreamed of Grandpa twisting his cap in front of Barney.

In June Ollie put money on My Love to win the Derby. It won and he gave money to Maisie for a new dress but still there was no light in her face and the quarrels continued.

Harold and Norah seldom took their cycles out now, because Norah didn’t want to. They didn’t quarrel though, they sat either side of the fireplace while she knitted and he watched Rosie and sucked his teeth just because she was there. But Rosie just looked back, because there was nowhere else she was goddamn going, not yet.

On the day that the Berlin airlift began and the Dakotas shuttled in the food that would break the Russian blockade, Jack had to attend for his medical, which he passed but he wasn’t required to report. He was an apprentice, wasn’t he, he told Rosie when he met her from work.

They picked Lee up and went straight to the rec to push him on the swing. The wallpaper was still hanging off the damaged houses but there was more and more grass pushing through the caked earth over by the slide.

‘The bines will be growing,’ Jack said, his voice lurching as he pushed. ‘One day we’ll go back.’

Rosie watched his hands on the back of Lee’s seat, the muscles in his arms, his shoulders. His skin was tanned now and she wanted to reach forward and kiss him.

She remembered their most recent trip to Soho. They had listened to jazz and he had said that Duke Ellington was always changing, that was why he liked him. She had said that she was tired of change. That was why she liked New Orleans, Dixieland. Bix Beiderbecke. He was dead. He couldn’t change.

She did move now, putting her arms around Jack as he swung Lee, wanting him close. Because soon he might go. How long could he get away with all this?

In August, the Olympic Games were held in London but without Germany, the Soviet Union and Japan. Frank and Nancy had written to her asking for a feature on it from her point of view. They sent money for her travel expenses to Henley for the rowing, to Bisley for the shooting and to Cowes for the yachting. She arranged for some time off work and they said that she should show them her work and they would consider it for publication.

Norah was jealous and angry and told her as she slopped potato out of the pan on to her own plate that she should go back to America with her superior ideas and leave them in peace.

At Cowes she loved the feel of the wind in her hair and as she leaned on the rail of the ferry leaving Portsmouth she thought how Grandpa would have enjoyed this. She had Lee with her to give Maisie and Ollie a bit of peace.

They stayed the night at a small cottage where they ate scones and homemade jam. The landlady’s son was in the Army, a National Serviceman who was fighting the Malayan Communists. His friend had been killed next to him, three weeks ago, in the jungle, Mrs Mallory said, but so far her son was fine.

The tablecloth was crisp and white and Lee picked up the crumbs he had made. His hands were like Jack’s and Rosie held them and kissed them, wanting to catch the ferry back to Jack. Not for the first time she was grateful to the man whose cheeses they had stolen.

Lee pulled away, and reached for another scone, so she stroked his hair instead and looked at the horse brasses on the wall, the black beams across the ceiling and thought that one day she and Jack would have a home like this, but within scent of the hops.

The next day they watched the yachts and the crowds and Rosie described the gulls which wheeled and dived on to a bald man’s head. She wrote of the blazers, and the women in sleek dresses who burst into cheers as Britain won a gold medal, of the ice-cream which tasted almost as good as maple walnut, of the trees around Osborne which were almost as tall as the white oaks. She wrote of all this but thought of Frank disappearing out round the point to fish. One day she would see them again because Frank was still stressed, but there was no time now. Each moment must be for Jack.

She took Lee to Wembley too and wrote of the thirty-year-old Dutch housewife who was cheered on by the British women because, though she was world record holder in both the high and long jump, she competed in neither and won four track events instead.

She wrote of how the cinder track seemed to beat back the heat and the disappointment when Britain failed to win an athletics gold. She lifted Lee on her shoulders to watch the Czechoslovakian Emil Zatopek win the 10,000 metres and thought of Frank and his love for that small country as the crowd rose to cheer the runner. Tears were pouring down her own face and Lee laughed, bent over, digging his heels into her arms, and wiped them for her with his sleeve.

She bought him a drink and a sandwich from a stall, and they sat on some steps, Lee tucked in next to her in her shade, laughing as he pushed some bread into her mouth. The egg was warm. The sun was hot on her neck. She put her arm round him and held him to her.

‘I love you,’ she said, rubbing her face on his hair.

‘Love you, and Jack,’ Lee said. ‘Still will when I go to school next year.’

‘And we’ll still love you, even though you’ll be really big.’ Rosie unwrapped some biscuits she had made and poured him some milk from the flask. The ration had gone up to three and a half pints.

Lee turned his face away.

‘Go on, it’s good for you.’ Rosie held the mug for him, hearing the crowds cheering in the background. He wouldn’t drink it.

‘Why should you?’ Rosie murmured as she poured it back into the flask. ‘There’s too much you have to do because someone tells you to.’ She thought of Jack and the landlady’s son in the Malayan jungles. He must have volunteered. How crazy.

She watched Lee eat his biscuit and then took him by the hand because she wanted to watch the Americans running in the relay. It reminded her of Lower Falls School somehow, the heat, the ice-creams, the fun. They pushed their way up, squeezing on to seats, looking down at the track. Maybe there should be majorettes. She saw her old room, the Cougar pennant, the programmes.

It was hot and she pulled Lee’s hat from her pocket, and made him wear it although he wriggled. She sat him on her knee, holding his legs, knowing her dress would crease but not caring because he was Lee and she and Jack loved him.

The crowd were noisy, the relay hadn’t begun. People were still going up and down the stairs, seeking seats. Rosie wiped her forehead. It was so goddamn hot. She shielded her eyes. The race must begin soon. The athletes were limbering up, shaking their arms and legs. She could almost hear the cinders crunch.

But then she saw Maisie walking down the steps between the seats twenty feet away. She watched her turn, and stretch out her hand towards a big red-haired man and her face was full of life and full of love and Rosie could not breathe, but held Lee tightly. It was a mistake. She looked away, then back again, and knew it was no mistake. The man was the same one who had been at the Royal wedding, and there was still the same love on both their faces.

Rosie didn’t watch the race, only those two people who walked on and disappeared, and then she took Lee down the steps too, pulling his hat even further on to his head because his hair was the same red as that man who had looked with love at Maisie.

That evening she heard Maisie carrying washing into the yard and left the roses she had been dead-heading, throwing the faded blooms into the compost in the corner, opening the yard gate, shooing away the children that played in the alley, entering Jack’s yard.

‘I saw you today,’ she said, not looking at Maisie but helping to peg up the sheets, smelling their freshness, hearing the dogs and children further down the alley, knowing that Lee would be out there soon kicking a football with his friends.

‘I saw you, Maisie, and you’ve got to decide. You can’t go on like this. It’s not fair on Jack. Or on Ollie. You’re tearing them apart and yourself.’

She still didn’t look but heard Maisie throw her pegs back into the old cocoa tin and lean against the back wall, her face to the sun.

‘I can’t decide, you see, Rosie. That’s just it. I’m torn between two worlds. But don’t tell them. Please.’ Maisie moved now and took her arm. ‘Please. I’ll sort it out. I’ll make it all right. Just don’t tell anyone. Albert always said you had a right to privacy.’

Rosie shook out the last sheet. Lee’s laughter was loud as he ran past her and out into the alley, dribbling the ball, kicking it to his friend. She and Jack had done that.

She turned now. ‘Of course I won’t say anything but just don’t hurt them. Especially Jack. Please don’t hurt them.’ Maisie touched Rosie’s hair. ‘I won’t. I promise I won’t. I’m glad you know. It will help me to be firm.’

Rosie’s magazine didn’t take her pieces because they were geared to the American markets, but they thought she had talent and when there was an opening they would give her a chance. They celebrated because Jack came round to say that Maisie was being nice to Ollie again. She seemed more settled, he told Rosie.

‘It’s strange. I don’t know what’s happened but something has,’ he said.

They went up West and ate in Lyons Corner House while a small band played and then they danced and she felt his body next to hers, dancing in step, always in step, and the evening was warm and long and that night they kissed in the yard, and his mouth was as urgent as hers, and his hands were strong on her body.

‘I love you, Rosie. I love you and I want you. But we must wait.’

He drew back and his face was beautiful in the light from the moon and there was the fragrance of Grandpa’s roses all around. It was not the place for words, and so Rosie said nothing about Maisie and the man. She could not break her promise.

There was a letter on the hall floor for her next morning, which Norah and Harold had not picked up. They never did, if it was for her.

It was from Nancy enclosing sixty dollars.

Lower Falls

My dearest Rosie,

I do hope that perhaps soon we shall see you. It would cheer Frank up so much. He loved your features. They were published last week. Again to great enthusiasm.

Our local band of defenders against the Commies is in full cry yet again because two Congressional committees have been set up to investigate allegations that 30 US officials belong to a spy ring. Thank God most people don’t believe it but there are two men, Karl Mundt in the House and Senator Joe McCarthy, a Wisconsin Republican, who most certainly do.

It would be laughable if it wasn’t so serious. A manhole blew up in the street yesterday and Frank yelled, ‘It’s those Commie bastards.’ Some people believed him.

But he is kind of down. He’s got himself all worried about Korea now. I keep telling him it’s all getting too stupid. He’s seeing a new war where there is none. I’m kind of worried about him. The paper’s readership is suffering. We have had a brick through the office window, but he won’t stop writing common sense. The LA doesn’t like that of course.