The curtains parted and Sister came in, and Poppy opened her eyes to glare at her, for the woman had her mouth open to protest at the noise Jessie was making, but Poppy hissed, ‘I’ve had to tell her her son was killed. She’s praying for him –’ And Sister looked at her and then at Jessie’s closed eyes and moving lips and then crisply nodded and went away. A good woman after all, Poppy thought. A good woman.
They talked a long time after that, Poppy and Jessie, of the old days of Bernie’s childhood sins. ‘A lobbas,’ Jessie said fondly and wept again and Poppy bit her lip and tried, very hard she tried, to think good of the dead. But it wasn’t easy.
After that, there was so much to organize, to deal with and to plan that she had hardly any time to think about anything, and certainly not of her own feelings. There was the matter of Bernie’s funeral, first, and that was difficult with so few rabbis around and the cemeteries sadly depleted of gravediggers, but that was managed, somehow; and then there was the even more painful matter of what to do about the business.
She went again in daylight to look at the damage and had to face the truth; there was no possibility of restoring the premises in the makeshift way other business people tried to do when it happened to them. There could be no ‘Business as Usual’ signs on these doors. Lily, who had come to work as usual the morning after the raid, had taken one look and then, frozen-faced, had told Poppy she’d had enough. She was going to live with her sister in High Wycombe till it was over.
‘I’ll come and see Jessie wherever she is, and I’ll go to the funeral for that Bernie, the – well, I’ll be there. Right’s right. But after this, there’s nothing left for me here. I’m old now. I have to go.’ And she had looked at Poppy bleakly and then wept on her shoulder, and Poppy had stood there, dry-eyed, patting her shoulder and wondering when there would be someone for her to lean on. Oh, David, she prayed. Be safe, my darling. Be safe.
There was worse to come. When she investigated the situation she realized that the other restaurants, in the West End and in Knightsbridge, had to go too. They might have intact premises, but without the kitchens in Cable Street to back them, she couldn’t maintain any sort of service. Better to let go, especially as she discovered that her insurance policies covered such an eventuality. And she remembered the long
hours she had spent, back in the early 1930s, hammering out these policies to make sure they were well protected and was grateful for her own past perspicacity. There were no clauses to exclude enemy action damage in her policies, no chance for the insurance company to renege on its deal. And the cheques were paid into the bank and there she was. After all the years of running three restaurants and a busy factory kitchen supplying half London with Jewish delicatessen, and also their own shop, it was all over. There was only money to show for it – a sizeable sum, but still only money – and a crater in Cable Street.
That, Poppy told herself, was her nadir. And then castigated herself for her own wickedness. Jessie was alive, wasn’t she? That was what mattered. And though David was far away and she had heard no word from him or about him, to the best of her knowledge he was all right. He would get home, he would, he would. How could she be at her lowest, she asked herself passionately, when the people she most loved were all right? Or comparatively so –
She accompanied Jessie on her journey to the hospital just outside Bishops Stortford, in Hertfordshire, and was comforted to see how well cared for she would be. The place was set in the middle of a country park, having been adapted from an old manor house, and was beautifully equipped and, as far as Poppy could tell, staffed by gentle sensible people. She had no qualms about leaving Jessie there, though the old woman had clung to her hand, weeping bitterly, not wanting to let her go.
‘I can’t be alone, so far from home,’ she wailed. ‘So much nothing out there –’ And she looked towards the wide window and the vista of fields and hedges and trees it showed her, with disgust. ‘I’ll go meshuggah here. Don’t leave, me, darling – ’
But she’d been able to persuade her of the need for being there, and by the time she actually left, Jessie had accepted the necessity, albeit grudgingly.
‘As long as you come to see me often, dolly,’ she said. ‘And bring me something to eat from the kitchens. It won’t be like I make myself, but it’ll be all right, the girls’ll make for me – ’
And Poppy, who hadn’t yet been able to tell her that the business had gone too, promised she would, and tried to think feverishly of where she could get the sort of things she knew Jessie wanted.
Well, she told herself as the train limped its slow way back to London through anonymous country stations and bleak wintry fields, that’s that. Now what? What will I do tomorrow with nothing to get up for but the canteen? At least I’ve still got that – and she had fallen into an uneasy sleep and dreamt of being at the canteen and having no food for the customers and Bernie appearing in the doorway with a case full of stale bread to sell, and she woke with a start and shook herself for being so stupid. It would be all right.
All right
. It had to be. Somehow it would be all right.
And then at last, the only thing that could make her feel really better happened.
She was woken by the phone shrilling downstairs, and somehow she dragged herself from the depths of sleep – because the night before she had in the desperation of an exhaustion that had robbed her of sleep for the past two nights, taken a pill – and managed to find her way downstairs to answer it.
‘Mrs Deveen?’ the voice clacked in a maddening singsong tone. ‘Ai have a call for you. Kaindly hold the line – ’
An official voice, Poppy thought, staring blearily at the front door, outside which the dark night pressed in on her. An official voice – at this time? What time is it? And she managed to lean across, while still clutching the phone to her ear, to kick open the dining room door and peer across at the clock on the mantelshelf. Half past five in the morning; and she thought – who’s the fool calling at this time? And then went cold.
It had happened. The worst thing she could have imagined and it had happened. David had been badly hurt. Worse, David was dead. He’d never come back to her. She’d lost the only bulwark she had in a dreadful world and –
‘Mrs Deveen? Are you the-ere, Mrs Deveen?’
‘Yes,’ she said and her voice was thick. ‘For God’s sake who is – ? What is it? What – ’
‘Hold the laine per-lease,’ And she could have screamed at the delay and held the phone so tightly that her knuckles were white and her fingers began to tingle, not that she paid any attention.
‘Mrs Deveen?’ Another voice this time and now she lost her temper ‘Fod God’s sake, what’s happening? People keep coming on the line and saying my name – who are you? Where are you calling from? What’s going – ’
‘Poppy?’ the voice said in her ear and the words dried in her throat and she stared even harder at the front door, trying to concentrate.
‘Poppy? Darling, it’s all right. I’m all right. Stop fretting. Are you okay, sweetheart? I heard the raids got bad again – I’ve been frantic – Poppy?’
‘Oh, my God,’ she whispered and again began to cry. She wouldn’t have thought she had any tears left, she’d shed so many.
‘Poppy, are you there?’ Anxiety sharpened his voice and now she found her own.
‘Oh, David, David, thank God! I didn’t think I could go on another moment and now you’re here, and oh, David –’ And she could say no more for a moment.
‘It’s all right, sweetie. It’s just a small thing really. They can take the plaster off in a few weeks and – ’
‘What did you say? Plaster?’ Her voice came back with a rush. ‘Oh, darling, what’s happened?’
‘Nothing dreadful. Slipped on a wet deck in a heaving sea. But, oh Poppy, have I got some material! I’ve got the story of the century, believe me. If I don’t get a Pulitzer Prize there’s no goddamned justice in this wicked old world. I’ll be writing for weeks, believe me. Just as well because I won’t be able to get around much – maybe you can spend some time at home with me, darling? Let Jessie get on alone, just for one – I’m aching to see you – ’
‘Oh, David, I’ve so much to tell you. The business is gone – ’
‘Gone?’ He was horrified. ‘How do you mean, gone – ’
‘Bombed. I can’t tell it all now. And Jessie – she’s in hospital and – oh, darling when will you get here? I need to see you so much and tell you so much and – ’
‘Goddamn!’ he said and the line crackled and went dim for a moment and then cleared. ‘That’s the bloody thing about it – they won’t let me travel alone. I have to be collected. The Navy brought me this far, to Liverpool, but the sods won’t take me any further. I’m not Naval personnel, you see and – ’
‘It’s all right,’ she cried joyously. ‘It’s all right! Where are you? Tell me all I need to know and I’ll be on my way. The first train I can get. Oh, David, I’ll see you soon! It’s wonderful!’
Nine hours after Poppy’s train snorted its majestic way out of
Euston, on its way to Crewe and an interminable delay there for the connection to Liverpool, the small fussy train from Norwich settled itself against the buffers in Liverpool Street and the doors all along it opened like so many gunshots, slamming against the sides with a very satisfying bang, and the small boy who left the third carriage from the engine waited just for a moment to give the door another bang, just for the joy of hearing it.
The man getting out behind him snapped, told him not to do such stupid things, and immediately, Joshy attached himself to him.
‘Why not?’ he asked, his eyes wide and his head tipped back to stare up at the man’s face. He was wearing what Joshy always thought of as butler’s clothes, ever since he’d seen one of those august beings in the house of a friend of his when he’d gone there for a tea party; a fusty black jacket with tails behind and a high collar that looked as though it were cutting into his neck, under a very round and clearly painfully hard hat.
‘Because making a noise is selfish and bad manners,’ the august being thundered, fiddling in his waistcoat pocket for his ticket. The crush of people leaving the station slowed down as it reached the bottleneck of the ticket collector’s gate and Joshy, looking ahead, skipped nimbly to the man’s other side.
‘Why is it bad manners?’ he demanded and the man beside him snorted.
‘Because it is,’ he said. ‘And it’s bad manners to make a pest of yourself asking silly questions as though busy people hadn’t better things to do than waste their breath on children who ought to know better –’ He handed over his ticket, still talking and Joshy, close by his far side, kept step with him. They were through the collector’s gate and no one had spotted him; another couple of seconds and he’d be able to get away. And he walked alongside the still lecturing august person till they were in the middle of the station and then nodded brightly at him and said cheerfully, ‘Thank you, sir. Very kind of you, sir!’ and skipped off, disappearing into the surging mob of khaki and naval and air force blue and WVS green like a ferret going down a hole. The large man blinked and just for once revised his opinion of small boys. That one had been really quite well brought up, considering –
Joshy was extremely pleased with himself. It had been a long
time since he’d run away and he was bigger now. It should have been harder to get away without a ticket than it had been last time, but thanks to that chattering old idiot he’d done very well and he grinned to himself and whispered aloud, ‘Old idiot,’ knowing he would never be cheeky enough to say such a thing to a grown-up’s face.
He made his way through the station, still pleased with himself for remembering the way to the Underground, but when he reached the ticket office and handed over the sixpence he had so carefully hoarded for this purpose his courage began to ebb a little. All he’d thought of for the past two days had been this journey, and the planning and the execution of it had been dramatic enough to keep him at high pitch. But now, standing on the platform amid all the people on their bunks and blankets, waiting for the right train, anticlimax swallowed him up and his bravery seeped away like rain on a dry flowerbed.
What would they say at home? Would Mummy be as angry as she had been last time, and would she make him go back? That possibility hadn’t been one he’d been willing to think of so far, but now he had to. The next stage of his journey was home, that much longed-for place where all should have been peaceful and loving and welcoming. And which, now he came to think of it, was likely to be anything but.
He made up his mind suddenly as the train limped into the station and the scrimmage of leaving passengers caught him in its current; he wouldn’t go home at all. He had a much better idea, and he climbed on the train and stood staring up over the sliding doors at the map of the Underground with its brightly coloured lines, trying to work out which station was the one he needed. From now on it really would be lovely, he promised himself, and he held on to the rail beside the sliding doors, because he was still too short to reach the leather straps that swung so invitingly overhead, and began to whistle softly between his teeth.
Mildred woke suddenly as a coal fell in the grate with a little rattle and then stretched stiffly. It was really dreadful the way she fell asleep in her chair these evenings, since it so often made her go past her bedtime, and that really was foolish. It also made her ashamed of herself; such behaviour had always been despicable in her eyes, so loutish was it, and suddenly she
remembered her father stretched out in this self-same drawing room and snoring in a singularly unlovely fashion, and gave a little shudder. She hadn’t thought of him for many years; why should she when he had been so altogether hateful? Thinking of him now was stupid; she must be getting old. And the thought slid into her mind that she was now older, a good deal older, than her father had been when he had died. But that was an insupportable thought and she set it aside at once.
Below her the door bell rang, and she lifted her head eagerly. Poppy? Who else could it be at this time of night? And she glanced at the clock, which read eleven, and got painfully to her feet. It would be wonderful to see her; she had been worried about her this past two weeks, for she had heard nothing from her. That she was busy was undoubted. Jessie kept the poor girl constantly on the go, she told herself censoriously, but then Jessie always had. And she looked back down the years at her feud with Jessie and sighed. A pity really. It had been so good between them once, long ago. But not now, with Poppy being kept away from her own mother, even when the phone at her wretched office was constantly out of order, and she was never in when her mother called Norland Square.