JULY 1936
Everyone at the factory’s going off for the summer. Most of them are going to Scarborough, but some are travelling across the way to Blackpool. They’ve all got a real beano in mind. But me, well, I’ll not be going anywhere. I know that she won’t let me. She’ll just tell me it’s a waste of money and that will be the end of it. There won’t be any discussion, that will be it. Like when she made me leave school four years ago. I told her that Dad would have wanted me to get my school certificate, and maybe even one day go to college. She just stared at me and said, How do you know? She spoke to me as if he were nothing to do with me. I didn’t say anything else. As a child, I soon learned that it was best to say as little as possible to her. But whenever I picked up a book to read she would finger her Bible and look askance at me. She once hit me because she said I read too much. Apparently, there was no need to read so much. It was wilful disobedience on my part. She didn’t seem to understand that this was my way of hiding from her. Everything was seen as some kind of betrayal of her. I was always a disappointment. So I had to leave school and go to work. After all, I couldn’t expect her to support me any longer. How did I imagine she’d managed up until now? And so I left school. I’ve learned, over the last four years, to ignore her. To try not to hear her bleating, self-important voice. And I’ve continued to lock myself up in books. And now everyone’s talking about going off for the summer. But they haven’t asked me to go with them. They haven’t even asked me if I’m going somewhere else. They’re not interested. I expect they imagine they’ll get the same frightened answer that they got when they once asked me to a dance. I’m sorry, I stuttered. I expect they think I’m coy because I’m not much to look at. She doesn’t go anywhere because she’s ugly. Well, it’s true, but it’s not the whole story. It’s not even the half of it. I’m just happier with books. They don’t shout at me, or accuse me of anything. They don’t even know that I’m not much to look at.
CHRISTMAS 1936
I’ve got an extra job tearing tickets at the Lyceum Theatre (‘Yorkshire shows for Yorkshire folk’). Something to keep me out of her house for a bit longer each day. Once people are in, I get to see the show. But it’s not much of a show. In fact, it’s the pantomime, Mother Goose, but at least I’m getting to know a new world, and meeting people from a different background. That’s how I met Herbert. He’s an actor. He talks to me about Shakespeare. He seemed surprised that I’d read some of Shakespeare’s plays, and some poets like Wordsworth and Coleridge and so on. Herbert has begun explaining to me about the difference between comedy and tragedy. We talk a lot about these things. He laughed when I told him I hated my name because there were no Shakespearean characters called Joyce. We usually have a drink before the show. He’s trying to get me to like gin. I’m always trying to get the glass back on to its wet spot on the bar. And then, last night, Christmas Eve, I agreed to go out with him and the rest of the cast after the play had finished. There’s always places that will stay open for actors. Everybody seems to love actors. We all toasted Christmas as the clock struck twelve. Then later, having walked me home, Herbert kissed me goodnight outside the house and said how much he loved me. All I could think of to say was, I’m eighteen. He just smiled and kissed me again.
APRIL 1937
She didn’t even knock. She just came straight into my room and stood waiting for me to say something to her. I couldn’t say anything because I couldn’t stop crying. It annoyed me that she refused to see this. That she wouldn’t even acknowledge the fact that I was really upset. He wasn’t replying to any of my letters. None of them. And there was nobody at the factory that I could tell. She took a long look at me, but all she could say was, It’s the first time in ages I’ve seen you without a book. And I thought about it. She was right. But she didn’t even ask me why I was crying. If she had have done, I would have told her. But it was as if she just wanted to see what the noise was all about. And once she’d found out, she left and closed the door behind her.
MAY 1937
After the abortion, I went to church with her. Or, as she put it, I came to Christ. I still worked at the factory, but I said even less than before. I didn’t talk to anybody at all, even if they spoke to me. It was part of my performance. I didn’t speak. But I thought that Christ might be prepared to speak with me. At least He might express some interest in me. But He didn’t. So I left the church. Or I left Christ. I could never figure out which. And then she left me. My abandonment of Christ was the last straw. I’d chosen to leave He who had made her life possible. This was, for her, the unkindest cut of all.
CHRISTMAS 1937
On the train down, I stared out of the window. I would be spending every penny I’d ever managed to save in my life. When I got to London, I moved into a bed and breakfast near King’s Cross station. It occurred to me that I could last – with some luck – perhaps a lot of luck – four days. And then I didn’t know what. I found Herbert on the second day. He was at the Lyric Theatre playing in Mother Goose. A different production. Even though it was London, it seemed a worse production somehow. Even the posters were shabby. The whole thing was disappointing. But not as disappointing as Herbert, who got me a seat in the stalls and said we could talk afterwards. In a pub in Hammersmith that was thick with tobacco smoke. The Dog and Pheasant. He bought me a gin, and a pint for himself. And then he said he couldn’t reply to my letters. He told me about his wife and his two children, and I listened with my mouth open. And then I spilt my drink. It toppled over and I watched as it pooled on the table. He bought me another gin, then said he had to get some Woodbines from the bar. I never saw him again. I sat there by myself, an idle finger spinning the ice. I’d been jilted. I realized that Herbert had no idea of what it was like to be anyone but himself. But this didn’t make any sense, because he was supposed to be an actor. And then it was ten o’clock and I heard the landlord shouting. Time, ladies and gentlemen, please. Let’s be having you. Time. Outside the pub, a man asked me if I had a light. Then, before I could answer, he winked at me and smiled. He had yellow teeth. My stomach turned a slow somersault.
FEBRUARY 1938
This morning I started a new job. In a warehouse which imports foodstuffs from all over the country and abroad. My job is to serve the people who come in. Shopkeepers, mainly, from all over. I’m supposed to look cheerful. And talk. The factory. Well, they’d had enough of me not saying anything. But I hate this new talking job. I hate this town. I’m trying to start reading again, but it’s not easy. Every night I hear the dull beat of her feet as she drags herself up the creaking stairs. Then I realize that I’m no longer sure of why I’m reading, let alone what it is that I’m reading. I just want to cry, but I’ve promised myself that I’ll never let her see me cry again. Never.
SEPTEMBER 1941
It’s autumn. I’ve been here two years now. I’ve resigned myself to the fact that I won’t ever like it. But at least I don’t pretend. Len knows how I feel. He also knows how I feel about the war. I hate the ‘Wings for Victory’ and ‘Salute the Soldiers’ weeks. I’m just waiting for it all to end and then I’ll be off. Today I asked Len about his parents. He’s usually reluctant to talk about them, but for some reason he rested down his cup on the kitchen table and began to speak. But he didn’t look me in the eyes as he did so. He talked for a good while, in fact until I thought he might cry. But he didn’t. He was quiet for a while, and then he simply stood up and went out. I knew then that we’d never really been married. We didn’t know each other. We didn’t trust each other. Later on, he came in drunk and talking nonsense. He told me that he thought Hitler looked like a hysterical lavatory brush. And that because Russia was the only country to stand up to Hitler, maybe their system was right. I expect he heard this rubbish in the pub. He slumped against me as I helped him up the stairs to bed.
DECEMBER 1941
Len’s in prison for doing what hundreds of others, the length and breadth of this country, are still doing. Namely, trading in the so-called ‘black market’. They took him away the day after the Americans were gracious enough to join us in the war. The fact that they chose to stand by and watch as we lost Norway, Belgium, Prance, Denmark and Holland only served to stir up plenty of negative passions towards them. I sat with Len and listened to the announcement on the wireless. When it was over he snapped the
Star
shut and dropped it by the side of the armchair. Then he stood up. I heard the door slam, and his boots register on the cobbles. And the next morning the inspectors arrived. Representatives of the Price Regulation Committee of the North East Region, based in Leeds. To pinch him. But Len had gone to town. He had been warned three times, but he wouldn’t listen. Eggs could be bought only for the purposes of hatching, but farmers, shopkeepers and customers formed a partnership that made a nonsense of such decrees. Only Len would have to pursue his subversive activities on a grand scale. One thousand eggs. Possibly more. Officially, you could only charge 3
3
/
4
d
. for an egg. But there were plenty who’d pay up to 15 shillings for a dozen. Len was well aware of this. They waited outside in the motor car until Len came back up from town. When he did, he knew straight away that something was up. They followed him ‘in the door. The two of them. Len looked at me, and then back at them. He spoke to them like he was talking to a pair of hounds. You two. What do you want in my shop? It’s you we want, lad, they said. We’ve found what we’re looking for. And we’ve got your mate. Now you’ll be coming with us. Len spun around and stared at me. What have you told them? I shrugged my shoulders. You didn’t tell them ‘owt, did you? The inspectors looked at him. Is there something she shouldn’t have told us, is that it? Course not, snapped Len. You’re a lying bastard, aren’t you. Len moved towards me. One of the inspectors put his hand on Len’s arm. All right. You’re coming with us, and the door’s this way. Your wife can bring your things along later. No need for you to get alarmed now. It’s all pretty straightforward. You arresting me? We’re taking you in, lad. I told you. We’ve already got your farmer mate. The two of you will have plenty of time to get your story straight. What about her? Are you suggesting we take your wife as well? Len glared at me as though I were somehow responsible. But he couldn’t say anything, otherwise it would look as though he was guilty of something. Which, of course, he was. So he allowed himself to be marched off in silence. And I slept well that night. I stretched out in the bed. I knew that whatever happened, I wouldn’t have to share my bed with him again. That if he came back now, I’d stand up all night in the corner of the room before I’d ever condescend to join him in bed. Something was lifted from me the moment they took him away. My chest unknotted. I could breathe again. He expected and received little sympathy from the Magistrate, who terminated his speech with the observation that for shopkeepers and prostitutes these lean years were proving to be years of plenty. Len was encouraged to view himself as a vulture picking at the carcass of his wounded country. I returned to the village alone. To face their accusing eyes. I had not ‘stuck by him’. It was now important for me to abandon any vanity. To learn to ignore whatever they might be saying about me. I’ve been training myself. In the evenings I attend to the blackout curtains, then sit by myself and listen to the wireless. I follow the war, listen to ITMA, and read. I often think of my mother. But I never ask her for help. I don’t ask for anybody’s help. And in the shop, no matter how they look at me, I always ask them for their coupons. I wonder if they realize that if the inspectors hadn’t have taken Len, then the services were about ready to take me. I was about to be classified ‘mobile’, as they’re getting desperate. My invalid husband would have just had to learn how to look after himself. As he will have to when he gets out.
APRIL 1943
He came on the Sunday morning that I go down to visit my mother. The first Sunday morning of each month. He was dressed smartly in his uniform and he was carrying yet more daffodils. I’ve brought you some more of these yellow flowers. I like how they look. I smiled. Once again, I left him in the front of the shop while I went around the back to find a jar. I saw the ring that I’d taken off and put by the kitchen tap. My God, what was I doing? There was something brassy about having taken it off and not having replaced it. But I didn’t care. I left the ring there, jammed the flowers into a jar, and came back through into the shop. I didn’t know if I should bring you some candy, he said. But it doesn’t matter. I can let you have some whenever you want. All you have to do is say when. He seemed nervous, so I touched him on the arm. That’s all right, I said. Don’t worry. Let’s go. I smiled at him and he seemed to relax a little. For a walk? Not exactly, I said. I thought we could go and see my mother. His face dropped. It’s all right, I said. She’s dead. He didn’t know what to do. I tell you what. I’ll take the flowers, if that’s all right with you. We can put them on the grave. Then he started to laugh, and I realized that it would be all right. My mother used to like flowers, I said. I took them out of the jar. We waited at the bus stop. People passed by on their way to church. It was nothing to do with him. They didn’t talk to me anyhow. I wondered if there was some way of letting him know this. That it wasn’t anything to do with him why they weren’t talking. But I decided that it was too early to tell him this. I might as well let him work some things out for himself. We talked on the bus. Most of the time I just listened, for he talked more than I did. He told me a bit about himself, and why he joined the army. Me, I didn’t like to ask too much because I don’t know much about Americans. Or Coloureds. I was sure that I was going to make a mistake. Bound to. So I said nothing. I just kept my mouth shut and listened to him talking to me in that sing-song accent of his. I like it. It makes me laugh, although I’m not sure that it’s supposed to. The way he stretches out words. When we got to town we went straight to the cemetery and he was very proper. I let him put the flowers on my mother. He asked me if I wanted to say a prayer. I looked at him, unsure as to what to do. I thought I’d better just tell the truth. I don’t know any prayers, I said. This wasn’t really true. I do know some, but I’m not very good at such things. Like prayers. He said that was all right, but would I mind if he said one. I said, course not. So he did. When it was over, I thought that I’d better tell him that there’s not really that much to see and do in the town. That’s the honest truth. I don’t care what anybody says. It’s not really any place to show a visitor. He suggested that we could talk as we walked the streets, so we did. And again we talked about him, and I tried to avoid the way people were looking. They were looking at me. Not him. They just nodded at him. Some people asked him for a Lucky Strike. He always gave away two, and a smile. I thought that was nice. It made me think nice things about him. But nobody would say anything to me. I knew what they were thinking. That he was just using me for fun. There was no ring on my finger, but I didn’t think that they had the right to look at me in that way. Just who the hell did they think they were? I told my friend that I thought we should sit down in the park for a minute. I didn’t feel all that well. In fact, I told him, I felt a bit dizzy. He wrapped his finger and thumb around my wrist. You sure you’re getting enough to eat? Yes, thank you. You sure you don’t want me to fix you up with some Hershey bars? I smiled. We sat awkwardly and in silence, he with his thoughts, I with mine. I just kept thinking, I can’t see what they’re getting out of it. Being so cruel. But I was just making myself more and more angry, and I could sense that it was getting difficult for him. I slipped my arm inside his and asked him if he fancied going to the pictures. He smiled. Sure, why not? And so there we were, in the dark in the Elektra Palace, watching the first house, but I wasn’t really watching, and I sensed that he could tell. I felt such a fool, but I didn’t know how to tell him that it wasn’t his fault. That it was nothing to do with him. Honestly. When we came out it was dark and I knew we’d missed the bus. I didn’t know what to do. We walked aimlessly towards the bus stop and then I realized that I’d better own up. He looked at his watch. I’ve got to be back in an hour. Surely there’s some other way? What about a taxi? I told him that I’d never taken a taxi. I didn’t know if they still ran, what with the blackout and everything. Then I told him that I was sorry. That I didn’t want to get him into trouble. He looked at me. Don’t worry. It’s not your fault. I knew he wasn’t telling me the truth. He was trying to spare my feelings. We stood and waited for an imaginary taxi. Small ‘starlight’ bulbs have now replaced all the standard ones. These bulbs cast faintly illuminated circles down on to the pavement, which is supposed to make it easier for us to see. I explained to him that apparently you can’t see these lights from above. He touched my arm. I could see that he was worried. After half an hour, he flagged down a military jeep. MPs, he whispered. We both climbed into the back of the jeep. He told them I’d been kind enough to introduce him to my mother. Then she got sick and we had to wait on her. I wanted to laugh, but I was frightened. The two men in the front of the jeep said nothing. And I knew now that I had got him into big trouble. I wanted the earth to swallow me up. He laced his hands around his knees and we rode back in silence.