London Pride (38 page)

‘It's important, lassie, because we might have to go to war to protect it.'

‘Well that's daft if you ask me,' Megan said. ‘What's it got to do with us?'

‘Do you think we will, Mr MacFarlane?' another girl asked. ‘Go to war I mean.' There was no larking about this morning. The news was far too grave for that.

‘I dearrly hope not,' Mr MacFarlane said. ‘Perhaps Mr Chamberlain will make them see a wee bit sense.'

‘Until all this started I'd never even heard of the place,' Megan said. ‘It can't be
that
important.'

‘It's half past eight, Mr MacFarlane,' Peggy pointed out. ‘Madame Aimee'll be down any minute. Did we ought to open the doors?' The conversation was upsetting her because she knew in her bones that this crisis was horribly important. It was the only one that had stayed on the front page of the newspapers day after day, and it had been going on all through the summer.

‘Oh aye,' Mr MacFarlane agreed, looking round nervously for his wife. ‘Chop chop, girrls. And currrtesy and efficiency remember.'

It had been a glorious summer. Even now, in the middle of September and with the autumn approaching, the days were warm and easy. And yet London was a city preparing to be bombed. Every day brought changes and all of them alarming. Long ugly slit trenches were being dug in all the public parks, and brick sheds labelled ‘Air Raid Shelter' were being erected on several street corners, while important buildings like banks had already been barricaded behind mounds of sandbags. And last week they'd all been issued with gasmasks, which looked and smelt quite terrifying and were the clearest and most unavoidable sign that the authorities thought that war was inevitable.

‘It
is
coming, ain't it?' Peggy said to Mr MacFarlane as Megan sped to open the doors.

‘Aye. I fear so, lassie. If our Prime Minister cannae prevail.'

‘It makes me feel helpless,' Peggy said. ‘I wish there was something I could do.'

He looked at her thoughtfully, stroking his moustache with his forefinger. ‘Do you?' he said.

‘Yes. I do.'

‘Even if it were dangerous?'

She thought about that for a while, then she said ‘Yes' again.

‘You could join the ARP if you'd a mind,' he said.

‘Would they have me?' Peggy asked. She'd heard of the ARP, the organization to provide Air Raid Precautions. Who hadn't in those jittery times? But it hadn't occurred to her that she might be eligible to join them. Join the ARP. Now that
was
a good idea. And just the right sort of thing for a soldier's daughter, born in the Tower.

‘I could introduce you,' Mr MacFarlane offered, ‘if you'd a mind. I've – ah – been a part-time warden, d'ye see, for quite a wee while now.'

It was a characteristically modest understatement. He'd been a member of the ARP for over eighteen months, as Peggy found out when she met him that evening at the
Wardens' Post on the corner of Billingsgate Street. And on his recommendation she was received with open arms and a cup of strong tea.

The post was actually somebody's front room and there were eight people already crowded into it, five men and three women. They all told her their names but she was so nervous she forgot them as soon as they were spoken, except for a small dark-haired woman who was called Joan, which was easy to remember, and the Chief Warden who was called Charlie Goodall. She was given a tin hat with W painted on the front, a whistle, a form to fill in, and an ARP respirator which was a lot bulkier than the one she had at home but smelt just the same. Then her name was added to a duty list.

‘If it came to it,' the Chief Warden told her, ‘we'd want you on duty for two evenings a week for about three hours. I'll take you on a tour of the local shelters after the talk. Show you the ropes. We have talks most weeks, various topics, a' course, black out, blast, gas, that sort a' thing.' He was very casual about it all, as if they were preparing for a Boy Scout outing. But that reassured her.

‘Tonight's gas,' the woman called Joan told her as they drank their tea. ‘You come with Mr MacFarlane, didn't you?'

‘Our Mr MacFarlane's a tower of strength,' the Chief Warden said. ‘Speaking of which, there's a demonstration of one of them new barrage balloons tomorrow afternoon. Anyone free to go?'

Nobody answered although he looked at them all one after another.

‘Well I could,' Peggy volunteered, ‘if you like. Seeing it's early closing.'

‘Capital,' the Chief Warden said. ‘Right. That's settled then.'

‘What do you want me to do?'

‘Oh just watch it. See what they're like. See what you think of 'em. That sort of thing. They've asked us to send someone along. It's a courtesy really.'

There was a rustle of interest near the door, a newcomer arriving.

‘Our speaker,' the Chief Warden said and set off to welcome him.

Peggy followed him. ‘Um – excuse me,' she said politely. ‘You ain't told me where it is.'

‘No more I have,' the Chief Warden laughed. ‘That's me all over. Two o'clock at the Tower.'

‘The Tower of London?'

‘That's the place. D'you know how to get there?'

The Tower, Peggy thought, and her heart expanded with affection at the memory of it. The dear old Tower. ‘Oh yes. I know how to get there.'

The pleasure of it sustained her through the first five minutes of the talk, while the speaker, who was a mild-mannered man with a slight lisp, embarked upon a list of the ‘known gases used in warfare'. But when he got to phosgene and was describing its effects, the horror of what he was saying pulled her into the present with a jolt. How on earth were you supposed to cope with someone when he was frothing up his lungs? Or choking to death before your eyes? And what if it was a child?

The obscenity of it clogged her mind long after the talk was done and the chit-chat was over. It was still upsetting her as she walked home through the quiet streets from one peaceful lamp to the next, past the cheerful racket of the pubs, the shuttered shops, noticing for the first time how many drawn blinds there were, and thinking of the children sleeping peacefully behind them.

I wish Jim was home, she thought, as she turned the corner into Paradise Row. He was the one person who would understand what she was feeling.

And there he was, striding down the street towards her, clear in the light from the streetlamp on the corner, as if she'd conjured him up by wishing for him. He looked more handsome than she'd ever seen him, with his tunic unbuttoned and his tie loosened and those long legs striding in such a strong steady rhythm that the cloth of his trousers seemed to ripple as he walked. He was so at home in his uniform now, with that funny little cap set at a jaunty angle on his dark hair and his buttons gleaming as they caught the light. And he was smiling at her as they approached one another, such a warm, loving smile that it made her yearn to run and throw her arms round his neck and greet him with a kiss.

She didn't do any such thing, of course. She was far too sensible for that.

‘Hello,' she said, standing still as he walked the last few steps towards her. ‘I didn't know you'd got leave.'

‘Ten days,' he told her. ‘It's been brought forward. I've been accepted on a new course. For engine fitter.' It was obviously very important to him. He was glowing with the pride of it.

‘That's good,' she said.

‘Yes,' he agreed. ‘It is rather. It's the engine for the new fighter planes I was telling you about. The Spitfires.'

‘Oh yes,' she said, trying to remember what he'd told her.

He grinned at her. ‘What's the news?'

Now it was her turn to feel proud. ‘Nothing much,' she said. ‘I've joined the ARP.'

Naturally, he thought. She would. ‘Good for you,' he said, nodding at her. ‘Is that where you've been tonight?'

‘Yes,' she said. ‘They've been learning us about different gases and how to recognize them by their smell. Lewisite smells of geraniums, so they say.' Telling him like this, calmly and out in the open air, lessened the evil of it a little.

But then Baby came squealing down the street to join them. ‘Well hello!' she said to Jim. ‘Fancy seeing you! I didn't think you'd be back for ages yet. Here, d'you know what the blighters have gone and done now? They given us all gasmasks! I ask you!'

‘She won't wear hers,' Peggy said. Let him know what a fool she was being.

‘I can't wear it,' Baby said. ‘It suffocates me. I can't breathe in it. It wrecks my hair and it makes my mascara run and you can't see anything out of that silly eyepiece. It's perfectly horrid.'

‘I should write and tell Hitler if I were you,' Jim advised. ‘I'm sure he wouldn't want to make your mascara run.'

Lily was standing on her doorstep with Percy in her arms urging the little boy to wave to his uncle. He was sixteen months old now and beginning to look quite sturdy. ‘Ain't you the lucky boy? Look who's come to see you.'

So they all went their several ways.

‘See you tomorrow,' Jim called as he strode into number two.

‘Where've you been?' Baby said. ‘You're back jolly late.' It wasn't like Peggy to be gadding about at night. Usually she only went to the pictures with Megan and came straight home afterwards in her dull old way. Baby had been dancing at the local palais, and she still smelt strongly of sweat and Evening in Paris.

‘Tell you when we're in,' Peggy said. It would be better to tell Mum and Baby at one and the same time just in case they got shirty. You never knew with either of them these days.

Fortunately Mrs Geary was still downstairs in the kitchen. The two women had been listening to ‘Band Wagon' on Flossie's new radio.

‘You done what?' Mum said, frowning with displeasure. ‘What d'you want to go an' do a thing like that for?'

‘Good fer you, gel,' Mrs Geary said, decidedly. ‘You got my vote.'

‘The ARP!' Flossie complained. ‘You'll be out all hours, I hope you realize.'

‘That's right,' Peggy said, agreeing with her, because that was one way to placate her and avoid an attack of nerves. Since that awful screaming fit she'd treated her mother's nerves with great caution. ‘I shall be out tomorrow afternoon for a start.'

‘Jim Boxall's home,' Baby said, changing the subject because that was another way to deal with nerves.

‘Is he?' Mrs Geary said. ‘Well that's nice. Tell him to come up and see me tomorrow morning, will yer, Baby? You could pop in on your way to work couldn't yer. I got something I want him ter do for me. Now then Peg, tell us where you're going tomorrow afternoon.'

It was quite a surprise to Peggy when Jim Boxall came knocking at the door the following afternoon just as she was putting on her hat and coat.

‘Escort to the Tower,' he said. ‘Reporting for duty.' He was smiling at her but his eyes were wary because he wasn't quite sure how she'd take it.

‘Escort to the Tower?' she laughed. ‘I don't need an
escort to the Tower. I was born there.'

‘Yes, I know,' he admitted at once. ‘It was Mrs Geary's idea. She thought you ought to have company.'

‘Soppy ha'pporth,' she said affectionately.

The words and their tone encouraged him. ‘You like her a lot, don't you?' he said as they walked out of the house together.

‘Yes, I suppose I do.' She could be a bit of a pest sometimes with all the errands she wanted run, but she was an old love really.

‘I can tell,' he said.

‘How?'

‘You called her soppy,' he explained. ‘You always call people soppy when you like them. You called Lily soppy when I was in hospital that time. And when you're playing with Yvey and Norman you call them old soppies too. It's your word.'

She hadn't given it much thought until then but he was right. It was her word.

There was a chill wind blowing straight up the street. She tucked up her collar and put her head down against it. The little protective movements touched him. Sensible Peggy, he thought, sensible Peggy who knows how to endure things. If only she wasn't quite so sensible sometimes. If only she could act the way she did in his dreams.

But they were walking in the light of common day, catching a tram, sitting side by side without touching, as pure and proper as nuns.

‘Least it's a bit warmer in here,' Peggy said, fishing in her pocket for her fare.

‘I'll pay,' he told her. ‘I'm the escort.'

As it was only tuppence she agreed. ‘It'll be really funny to see the Tower again,' she said.

And it was. It gave her the oddest sensation, a mixture of affection and yearning nostalgia and regret for the passing of time. After all these years, she thought, standing on Tower Hill and looking across at the familiar buildings. How long has it been? Fifteen years? Sixteen? She'd been about eight when they left and now she was twenty-four. A lifetime. And yet there it was, just the same as she remembered it, the stone-solid walls with
their dark arrow-slits peering down at the grassy bank that had once been the moat, with a village of towers and barracks and terraces behind them. The White Tower high on its mound, with those four grey domes topped by four gilded weather vanes, and the wind in the east, she noticed, the twin towers of Middle Tower and the Byward, the Bloody Tower and Traitor's Gate, Wakefield, and Lanthorn, and the Salt Tower where she'd felt the ghost. She could remember every single one.

‘There it is,' Jim said, turning her by the elbow so that she was pointing in the right direction. ‘There's your balloon. Over there on the ground, look.'

The balloon was a heap of crumpled silver fabric, rubberized cotton, so Jim told her, sprayed with aluminium. It looked like a deflated elephant and far too cumbersome to be capable of flight, but there were gangs of Auxiliary Air Force men labouring over the carcase with great intensity and determination, so they stayed where they were on the edge of the crowd and waited.