‘Thank you, dear. Now the old bitch’ll have to put up with me, whether she likes it or not. I’m Mabel.’ She’d extended a hand as if she expected it to be kissed, and Joe, blushing, had obliged. The manageress had slapped down the cup between them, slopping tea into the saucer. ‘None of that here,’ she’d snapped, and marched back to stand guard over her urn. When she was out of earshot, Joe’s new companion had leant across the table and said, ‘What’s your name, then?’
‘Joe.’
‘You’re a kind boy. I don’t suppose you remember me, do you dear?’
Unsure, he’d blurted, ‘Did you know my aunt, Edna Vincent?’
‘I don’t think so, dear, I meant from the pictures. I suppose it’s not likely.’ She tapped her temple. ‘I got this in a fire. They gave me new eyelids, but they don’t work.’
‘Were you in pictures, then?’
‘That’s right, dear. Mabel Morgan.’
He’d stared openly then. Of course he knew her! She was burnt into his consciousness through a thousand afternoons watching her melt into the arms of barely noticed leading men. It wasn’t until later he’d started to look at them; as a young boy, he’d watched only the actresses (‘Looking for hints, ducky,’ as a sympathetic chum had said later). And now she was in front of him, a phantom made flesh.
‘I do exist, you know. Some might say it’s a mistake, but still . . .’ She stuck out her arm. ‘Go on, pinch me if you don’t believe me.’
‘But . . . why are you here?’
‘Nowhere else to go, dear.’ She indicated a large, battered suitcase, which Joe hadn’t noticed before. ‘Lost my room.’
‘Your hotel room?’
‘No, dear. Where I live.’
‘But . . .’ He’d paused, not wanting to offend her. It was hard enough to reconcile the lustrous beauty of the silent screen with the blemished, Cockney reality, even though he could see they were one and the same, but he’d always thought that film stars - even film stars who no longer made pictures - lived in mansions like the ones he’d seen in newsreels. Embarrassed, he’d changed the subject. ‘The first picture I ever saw was one of yours.
David Copperfield
.’
‘I died in that one. I did a lot of that, swooning and dying. I enjoyed that, especially the suicides. I was very good at those.’
‘Like
The Passionate Pilgrim
.’
‘Oh yes! Aubrey Manning had to lay me down on a tomb. We filmed it after lunch, and his breath stank of sardines. Worse than the dog it was.’
‘Which dog?’
‘Oh, you won’t remember that one, dear.
Old Faithful
, it was called. First one I ever did. I had to keep on kissing this great big dog. Mind you, I got along with him, despite the . . .’ Mabel fanned her face with her hand. ‘It was the director I couldn’t bear. Henry Thurston. There was this one moment, dear . . .’ She leant across the table. ‘I had to look frightened, you see, and he kept saying it wasn’t good enough, so he said, “I’ll give you a fright,” and he undid his trousers and took it out. Scared me half to death. I was only eighteen, I’d never seen one before.’
Joe had been captivated. He’d used up the last of his money buying cups of tea while she talked, and then he’d taken her back to see his landlady. Mrs Cope, who liked Joe because he didn’t cause trouble, had seemed willing - for a small consideration on the rent - to accept his explanation that Mabel was a relative, fallen on hard times, and allowed her to share his tiny flat.
And now she wasn’t here any more. She’d never be here again. Joe laid the photograph on her pillow and went to her chest of drawers, where he opened her jewellery box and fingered the few items she hadn’t been able to pawn, then kissed the wooden pate of her wig-stand and, turning, ran his hands along the shoulders of the four dresses that hung from a rope strung across one corner of the room. He slid his favourite, a fine red wool, off its hanger and inhaled its scent before taking off his dressing gown, stepping into the dress, and zipping it up at the back. He was slim enough for it to fit, although the fabric across the chest, unsupported by breasts, sagged and puckered. For some reason it was the sight of this, as he stood in front of the mirror, which brought the tears.
FOUR
‘Why do you wear knickers?’
Stratton and Jenny were alone in the kitchen of the small, semi-detached mock-Tudor house they occupied in the north London suburb of Tottenham. Sunday lunch was over, Jenny’s two sisters and their husbands had departed to their homes up the road, and the washing up was done. Stratton was leaning back in his chair in a way forbidden to the children before they were evacuated because it weakened the joinery. Jenny was standing between his legs, her plump buttocks resting against the edge of the table. She folded her arms under her breasts and frowned slightly, considering the question. ‘What do you mean, why?’
Stratton pulled on his cigarette, exhaled, and squinted at her through the smoke. Jenny Stratton’s soft skin and round, dimpled face made her thirty years seem more like twenty-one. She had big green eyes, chestnut brown hair and a curvaceous body. After eleven years of marriage Stratton still watched the way that other men - including his brothers-in-law - looked at her, and felt a secret thrill of pride.
‘I’m not trying to be funny,’ he said. ‘I’m curious.’
‘Well,’ Jenny’s frown deepened. ‘I wear them because they keep me warm, and they’re comfortable - I’d feel strange without them. And they make me feel respectable.’
‘You don’t need to be respectable now. There’s no one here.’
‘Except you.’
‘Except me. So if you come upstairs, I can keep you warm, and make you comfortable.’
Jenny raised her eyebrows. ‘What, now? We’ve only just eaten.’
‘It’s not like swimming. And even if it was, it’s been a good hour . . .’
Jenny looked around the kitchen as if there might be some objection hidden amongst the crocks and canisters, then stood upright and undid her apron. ‘Why not?’ she said.
Jenny laid her head on her husband’s chest. ‘All right, are you?’ he asked, putting his arm round her.
‘Oh, yes. Only . . .’
Stratton knew what was coming. It crossed his mind that she’d only agreed to come to bed in order to soften his mood for another onslaught about the children.
‘I know we’ve talked about it,’ she said, ‘but—’
‘We’re not bringing them back, love. It isn’t safe.’
Jenny twisted round to look at him. ‘Nowhere’s safe, is it? Not now. Not if the Germans come.’
‘We don’t know that they’re going to come. And even if they do, Pete and Monica will be safer in Norfolk.’
‘The Germans’ll go to Norfolk, won’t they? It’s not that far from the coast, where they are. I keep imagining . . . What if there’s an invasion and I never see them again? Or if they’re killed, or . . . I think about it all the time, Ted. At least if they were with us we’d know, wouldn’t we? We’d be together, and even if . . . if . . .’
‘Don’t, Jenny.’ Stratton stroked her hair. ‘We’ve got to give them a chance.’
‘A chance to do what?’ Jenny wriggled out from under his arm and sat up straight, her voice rising. ‘To get killed? Or go to prison, or be slaves?’
‘That won’t happen.’
‘How do you know it won’t happen? Don’t you care what happens to them?’
Stratton sat up. ‘Of course I do. That’s why they’re staying put.’
‘The Lever boys are back, and the Bells—’
‘And they’re running up and down the street all day, causing trouble. Pete and Monica need to be at school.’
‘Doris wants to fetch Madeleine.’
Stratton sighed. Doris was Jenny’s favourite sister.
‘What about Donald? What does he think?’
‘He’s being as pig-headed as you are.’
‘We’re being sensible. I know you’re worried, love, but honestly, they’re best off where they are. There’s kids being evacuated all the time, now.’
Jenny levered herself off the bed, and, turning her back on him, put on her dressing gown.
‘We know they’re being looked after properly now, at this new place,’ said Stratton. ‘I know it was bad, before—’
‘Don’t, Ted. I’ll never forget when we saw them that first time. That horrible woman! I felt like a murderer for letting them go—’
‘But we got it sorted out, didn’t we? And this time they’re happy. You said that yourself.’
‘That Mrs Chetwynd sounds far too posh for us.’ Jenny rounded on the mirror and started jabbing hairgrips back into place. ‘With her big house . . . She’ll turn them into little snobs. We won’t be good enough for them any more.’
‘Is that what’s really worrying you?’
She spun round to face him, bashing the back of her hairbrush against the edge of the dressing table. ‘She’s got a castle in her garden!’
‘It’s a keep.’
‘I don’t care what it is! She’s got servants, and . . . everything.’ The last word was thickened by tears. As Jenny wrenched open the door, Stratton scrambled off the bed and took her in his arms.
‘Come on, love. This isn’t like you.’
‘Let go!’ Elbows pinioned - Stratton was a good eight inches taller, with a big chest and broad shoulders - Jenny thumped him ineffectually with the hairbrush.
‘No. Not till you calm down.’
‘They’ve got everything, Ted, everything we can’t give them. A dog, and horses.’
‘Well, Pete’s always wanted a dog.’
‘That’s what I mean!’
Stratton rubbed her back for a moment, then tried a different tack. ‘We’ve got horses.’
‘No we haven’t.’
‘The coalman’s horse.’
Jenny looked up at him, her laugh a cross between a sob and a yelp. ‘Silly. I meant proper horses. Posh horses.’
‘That’s better. You know, love, if you’re that worried, you could go and stay up there with them. I’m sure Mrs Chetwynd would know someone who’d take a paying guest.’
‘And what would you do?’ demanded Jenny. ‘Starve?’
‘I’d manage.’
‘Of course you wouldn’t. Not properly. I’m not leaving you, Ted.’ She swatted him with the hairbrush, playfully this time. ‘I don’t want to hear any more about it.’
‘All right then, you won’t. Now, why don’t you get back into bed, and I’ll make us a cup of tea?’
Jenny’s eyes widened. ‘It’s half-past five, Ted. We can’t!’
‘Why not?’
‘What if somebody comes round?’
‘We’ll pretend we’re not here.’
‘What if it’s Doris? Or Lilian?’ Both Jenny’s sisters had keys.
‘They’ve only just left.’
‘Two hours ago.’
‘Come on . . .’ Stratton kissed the top of her head. ‘Stop arguing. ’
Giggling, Jenny stood on tiptoe to kiss him back. ‘You’re a bad man, Ted Stratton.’
‘Terrible,’ Stratton agreed. ‘Deplorable, in fact. A rotten ba—’
‘Ted!’ Jenny put a hand over his mouth. It was a game they often played in private. She liked to appear shocked by his language, and he dropped the milder swear words into his conversation to scandalise her. She’d be genuinely appalled, he knew, if she ever heard the sort of crudities that were par for the course in police work, and he was careful never to use those words around her.
‘Honestly!’ said Jenny. ‘What with your language, and doing this in the middle of the afternoon, I don’t—’ She stiffened, and broke away from him. ‘Someone’s here. I can hear the key. One of them must have forgotten something. Let me get my things on. For heaven’s sake . . .’ She pulled off her dressing gown and scooped her blouse off the floor. ‘Put your clothes on, you’ll be quicker than me.’
Stratton groaned as the resonant boom of his least favourite brother-in-law issued from the hall. ‘’Ello, ’ello, ’ello! Anybody home?’
Reg Booth had a habit of reducing everyone to a single characteristic, as if they were merely supporting characters in the drama of his life. Stratton, being a policeman, was referred to as ‘the long arm of the law’, and his reluctant visits to Reg’s house were always heralded with cries of ‘Have you got a warrant?’
‘What’s he doing here?’ Jenny whispered.
Stratton shoved his shirt into his trousers and his feet into his slippers. ‘God knows. He must have borrowed Lilian’s key. I’ll go down, see if I can’t get rid of him.’
Reg, a beefy man whose features seemed to have been slapped onto his face around a bulbous, pock-marked nose, always reminded Stratton of a music hall comedian. He secretly relished an image of Reg dressed in a loud suit and cowering under a proscenium arch while a furious crowd pelted him with eggs, rotten tomatoes and dead cats. His jokes, if they could be called jokes, deserved all that, and more.
Now, he was standing, legs wide apart, on the hall linoleum, brandishing an enormous and rusty sabre. ‘Look at this beauty!’