The Night Raid Page 10

  ‘See you,’ said Zelah. The door slammed and Violet was gone.

  Chapter 11

  Violet

  Icy puddle water splashed up her legs, but she took no notice, striding on along the pavement as the bus drove off past Market Square. The bell in the domed town hall chimed the half-hour. Shops were beginning to lower their shutters for the night, and coated figures scurried homewards in the drizzle.

  There it was, up ahead. Vi crossed over, clogs sliding on the wet cobbles. It was like a squashed layer cake: cream plaster walls slouching streetwards. The first floor hung out over the pavement, supported by a row of stubby columns like liquorice sticks. Vi stopped under the colonnade, took off her headscarf and ran her fingers over her waves, pinching the ends back into place and patting off the damp. There were cigarette butts all over the pavement, and the water gurgling in the drain had a dank-sweet smell. She took out her lipstick, clicked off the lid and scraped a baby fingernail round the inside, before wiping it over her lips. There wasn’t much left, but she hadn’t any spare money for lipstick – it had all gone on the bottle of gin, and a fat lot of good that had done, Vi thought, pressing her lips together to get an even coverage.

  Vi heard music and laughter from inside the pub. Through the leaded pebble-glass she glimpsed smoky figures, a lit fire, lamps like puff balls. Then a hand pulled the blackout curtains across and everything disappeared. She hesitated just a second longer, tidying a brow with her ring finger before taking two steps to the crooked wooden door and pushing it open.

  She walked into a sea of voices, all foreign-sounding, full of zeds, zigzagging through the warm-sweet air. The pub was almost full already, although it was barely evening. She’d prepared herself for her entrance: a young woman, alone, in a pub like this. She lifted her chin, hearing the pub door bang shut behind her, the tide of voices shift and swirl, as they noticed her.

  She had prepared herself for the inevitable pause in their conversation, a moment where she would be stared at with that mixture of hostility and lechery. Then there’d be a ribald comment from some joker, beery breath on her neck, a slap on her arse as she made her way to the bar. Because that was what you expected as a single girl in a pub full of men. But none of that happened. There was a pause, but someone called out ‘Hello, beautiful!’ in cracked English, and the blue-grey uniforms of the Polish RAF rippled gently away from her as she headed across the room. Someone with dark, floppy hair blew a kiss as she passed, that was all. At the bar they made space for her to stand, without commenting or smirking at the temerity of it.

  The landlady was busy serving, filling the foaming pint pots, pouring the thimble-sized shot glasses, smiling and nodding and counting out change into outstretched hands, her large breasts swaying under her cream blouse, grey hair dark on her hairline where she was beginning to sweat. She wiped a swift hand over her brow and nodded at Vi. ‘What’ll it be, mi duck?’

  ‘I’m looking for Jacky Symanski,’ she said. The landlady’s eyes flicked over her, as if checking for a rank badge, but then she just shrugged and turned away to take another order.

  ‘I buy you drink, beautiful?’ said a short, brown-haired man standing at the bar next to her. Vi smiled and shook her head. No, she didn’t want to accept a drink from a charming young Polish pilot, thank you very much. (It was precisely that which had got her into this pickle in the first place.) She could hear the pub door opening and closing, more people coming in, English voices mixing with Polish. She tapped her fingers on the varnished wood of the bar, trying to think what to do.

  ‘Been stood up, luv?’ A local voice in her right ear. She shook her head but – ‘C’mon, there are worse places to be jilted. Lemme buy you a gin and lime, that’ll put a smile on those pretty lips.’ A gin was the very last thing likely to put a smile on her lips today. She shook her head again.

  Vi nudged and ‘excuse-me’d her way to the far end of the bar, where there was a hinged barrier that would let the bar staff out to collect glasses and empty ashtrays. She lifted it up and stepped onto the sticky lino behind the bar. Arms reached across, waving notes, as people called for drinks, assuming her to be a barmaid. She felt her shoulders relax, on familiar territory, this side of the bar. The landlady hadn’t even noticed, dealing with a tangle of lads at the far end, who’d just tumbled in off the street. The noise was like the spring tide on the estuary back home, rising up and up: ‘Hey, beautiful’; ‘Over here, duck’; ‘When you’ve got a moment, sweetheart’. She ignored them all and reached up to where the chain dangled from the brass bell, the one they’d use to call ‘time’ at the end of the evening. She grabbed it and pulled, hard. The bell clanged and everyone looked at her and in the sudden silence she shouted out: ‘I need to find Jacky Symanski!’

  Vi leant against one of the squat columns and tried not to shake as she struck a match to light her last fag. The flame wobbled. She pulled in the smoke and flicked the match into the gutter, wishing her heart would ruddy well slow down. The landlady had screeched for her chubby husband, who’d thudded out from the saloon and man-handled her outside with a ‘what-the-hell-d’you-think-you’re-playing-at-missy’ as they dodgemed through the punters and a ‘get-out-and-stay-out’ as he shoved her outside. She couldn’t really blame them. She’d probably have done the same if it had been her pub, Vi thought, staring out into the curtain of drizzle. She just hadn’t known what else to do. If she could just find the airman. She wasn’t going to ask for anything except the money to get the problem sorted, that was all. Pilots got paid a fortune; it was the least he could do.

  She pinched the fag end hard, concentrating on not letting her trembling fingers drop it onto the damp pavement. When she heard the pub door open and footsteps approach she deliberately looked away, out into the pencil-shaded evening, pretending not to hear the ‘Hello, beautiful’ in thickly accented English. She took a drag on her cigarette and then began to walk away, not bothering to put her headscarf back on, not caring about how the drenching air would spoil her hairstyle, because if she hung around, he’d just think she was hoping to be picked up. And that was the last thing she wanted.

  ‘I know Jacky,’ the voice said, and she faltered.

  ‘You do?’ She turned and took a step back towards the airman, a slight young man, barely taller than she was.

  ‘Yes, we train together. But he go.’

  ‘He’s gone?’ Her mind spun back. ‘But you’re on the same course?’

  ‘No, he finish. I pass out next week – I pray.’ He gave a sort of shrug as she approached. He had a short nose, and square face, hair a steel slice showing beneath his cap. ‘Jacky, he go to 303 Squadron in Northolt.’ Vi remembered, as he said it, recalling that the vodka had been to celebrate the passing out, and how hilarious it had seemed that neither of them knew where on earth in the country his posting actually was. It wasn’t funny any more. It was important, because if she could just contact him, surely he’d do the decent thing, send enough money for her to sort herself out?

  ‘Do you know the address?’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘I’ve got a pencil and paper.’ She rummaged in her pocket with her free hand. ‘Hang on a sec.’ Where was it? She was sure she’d put it in. Maybe she’d put it in the inside pocket. ‘Can you just hold my fag for me for a moment?’ She held out the lit cigarette and saw the man shake his head, shuffling his feet on the paving stones. He wouldn’t take the fag, didn’t look at her.

  ‘It’s not possible, beautiful,’ he said, and she knew what he was going to say even before he looked up and into her eyes. ‘Jacky Symanski is MIA. He went down over North Sea last week.’

  ‘But I need him.’

  His face creased and he swallowed. ‘I’m sorry, moja droga, he is gone.’

  The cigarette jolted from her fingers and onto the pavement. It was her last one. She crouched down, scrabbling, to grab it up and shove it lipstick-gritty back in her mouth. When she stood up again the trainee pilot had already gone, the pub doo
r banging closed behind him. Beyond the columns the rain had begun to fall in earnest. Vi took another drag and walked out into the watery barrage, wondering what the hell she was going to do now.

  George

  His shielded headlights just about picked out the figure with the thumb stuck out, as he turned right onto Wilford Road. It felt like a duty to stop for hitchhikers these days. He slowed to a halt, trying not to splash puddle water, and leant over to wind down the window.

  ‘I’m not going far – but where do you need to be?’

  A pale face at the window, dripping wet hair clinging like seaweed to a cheek. A young woman with a southern accent: ‘The gun factory.’

  ‘Me too. Hop in then.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  She slammed out the sluicing rain and wound up the window as he pushed the car into gear and drove away. His headlights stroked the rainfall, wavering like silver beaded curtains pulling apart as they drove.

  The girl was drenched, the air inside the car suddenly humid with her inside. The wipers pulled blurry semicircles on the glass. He wiped away condensation from the windscreen with the edge of his gloved hand. They’d be at the factory in five minutes or so. If he hadn’t stopped to pick her up she’d have been late clocking on, he thought, turning right onto Rupert Street.

  He thought, then, of Miss Fitzlord – Zelah – she’d be there already. She was probably changing into her overalls, getting ready for her shift. He found he was smiling, thinking of her pinning her hair up into her work cap, glancing across and passing the time of day with her colleagues. He was glad they’d cleared the air. There was something about her – he hadn’t found himself thinking about a woman in that way since . . .

  ‘Thank you for stopping for me,’ the young woman said, interrupting his thoughts.

  ‘Not at all – couldn’t have you wandering about in this downpour,’ he replied, hoping she wouldn’t want to engage him in small talk, when what he really wanted to do was plan his next night off with Miss Fitzlord. It was so difficult, what with the production drive – a twenty per cent increase within the current quarter was what the man from the ministry had told the Board. George knew he couldn’t really afford to take the time off. But – he thought of Miss Fitzlord’s face, and the sound of her laughter down the telephone line earlier on – she would only be on the night shift for a few short weeks. And once she was back to her usual job, he’d never see her again. He couldn’t afford to take time off work, but could he afford to miss his chance with the only woman in twenty years who’d made him feel like this?

  Outside the car windows the blurred shapes of the Rupert Street terraces slid past. It sounded as if an army of insects were swarming over the car, the raindrops making an aggressive patter as they went. The young woman was shifting in her seat. ‘Nearly there,’ he said, more to himself than her, thinking of how he could engineer a way to get Zelah off the tools for a few moments tonight, chisel a wedge of privacy for them somewhere on site. If he could only be alone with her, away from sharp eyes and loose tongues.

  They’d reached the entrance now. The security guard, fish-eyed in the drenching night, recognised the car and waved him through. As he pulled into the usual space he noticed that Simmons’ car was still there. Odd, he didn’t generally hang about at the end of his shift, having a wife, supper and two school-age boys to go home to. Why was he still here, then? George turned off the ignition and pulled on the handbrake. Before he turned off the headlights he noticed another car, a Bentley – wasn’t that the Chairman’s?

  The girl was clearing her throat and fiddling with the door handle as he pulled off his driving gloves. ‘Would you mind?’ she said. She was having trouble with the catch – it did tend to stick a bit in the wet – and as he reached across her he noticed his left hand and paused to pull off his wedding ring and put it safely away in his pocket. Then he undid the door for her and she thanked him again before getting out and slamming the door behind her.

  And it was only then that he remembered, watching the young woman in the beige coat walking up the steps to the factory doors. He’d been so preoccupied with Miss Fitzlord that he’d damn near forgot – Dame Laura Knight was arriving this evening, preparing to paint the night-shift girls, and the whole of the Board would have turned up to welcome her. He’d have to spend all night making polite conversation with this artist woman and there’d be precious little time for work, let alone finding time to get to know Miss Zelah Fitzlord.

  Damnation.

  Zelah

  ‘Here they come now,’ Violet Smith said, dashing across the shop floor. She’d only just arrived, soaked through and breathless. Zelah wondered where her room-mate had been and what she’d been doing this afternoon to make her cut it so fine to start her shift. Luckily they’d all been asked to hold off starting up the machinery, to give management a chance to show Dame Laura around in relative quiet.

  Zelah watched as the doors at the far end swung open and a knot of figures snagged through. Chargehands held clipboards like weaponry; setters stood to attention like corporals. It was for all the world like a military parade, Zelah thought, wiping a stray trickle of lubricant which had splashed on the lathe.

  ‘Was it like this when the King visited?’ Violet muttered.

  ‘Worse – we had to polish the drill bits,’ Zelah replied as they waited, breathing in the oily air as the party approached. Mr Handford – George – would be with them. She could see men in suits surrounding a woman in a dark green skirt, making slow progress towards them. Where was he? There, at the back – she could see the flash of his white coat. Zelah suppressed a smile and distracted herself by wiping again with the rag, even though she’d already removed the mess.

  Dame Laura was jewel-bright in the centre of dun-coloured suits, with her green skirt, blue blouse and a red scarf at her neck. She reminded Zelah of an escaped parakeet she’d seen once in the rooftops: exotic and out of place. The party was pausing at various pieces of equipment, Dame Laura nodding briskly, as if she were very interested in what type of lubricant was used, or how often a machine had to be re-calibrated. Her grey hair coiled on each side of her face like earphones. Zelah wondered how interested the artist really was. She was famous for painting ballerinas and circus troupes, George said. Could she really want to paint this sweaty box full of steel, swarf and dirty oil?

  Footsteps and voices got louder as Dame Laura’s party approached. ‘Good evening,’ Dame Laura said. Her voice was quite posh, loud, too – the voice of someone who was used to being listened to. Zelah felt the urge to curtsey, just as she’d done when the King toured the factory. Zelah said good evening, and Dame Laura asked what the machine was for, but before she could respond, Charlie Norris, her setter, had leapt forward and begun to give a demonstration. Dame Laura said it looked rather more dangerous than driving a car or manning a telephone exchange, and didn’t the girls ever have concerns for their safety, with an intense expression on her beaky face. Before Charlie Norris could start again, George Handford leant over and cut in.

  ‘Perhaps Miss Fitzlord should answer this – she is also the welfare supervisor, after all,’ he said.

  Zelah tried not to gabble, as she spoke about how the girls wore caps or turbans to keep their hair away from the equipment, and that workers had to put their jewellery away in lockers before shifts, for the same reason. ‘And management,’ Violet Smith called out, butting in. ‘You take your wedding ring off before your shift, don’t you, Mr Handford?’

  Zelah saw George glare at Violet, but he didn’t respond to her question. One of the suited men cleared his throat and suggested they move on to the oxyacetylene cutters.

  Zelah felt a sudden hollowness. A wedding ring? George wore a wedding ring outside work? So he was married, then. But how would Violet know that? Unless she’d seen him outside work? But why would she? Zelah remembered Violet putting on pink lipstick, trotting out of the room earlier on. She felt a plummeting sensation as George Handford walked off with Dam
e Laura and the rest of the group. She saw the back of him disappear off into Bay Seven with the others.

  He didn’t even turn to look at her.

  It was more than disappointment, more acute, watching him go. She had been on the brink of hoping for a different future, but her ridiculous optimism was entirely misplaced, she realised. She was reminded of the feeling she’d had that time after Mother’s death, when she’d had to visit the funeral parlour:

  It is one of those warm, still, early-autumn days outside: pale blue skies and leaves just starting to gild. Inside is airless and close. The smell of drying varnish makes her want to wrinkle her nose. Lilies droop in an urn and dust motes play in a shaft of sunlight.

  ‘There doesn’t appear to be a problem, madam,’ he says at last, glasses slipping down his long nose as he scans the sheet on the counter between them.

  She gulps in tepid air before replying. ‘But this isn’t the amount your father and I agreed on.’

  He sucks his teeth and looks down at the document. She can smell his cologne, overpowering the scent of the dying lilies. ‘I think he gave you the quote before we had our discussion. Perhaps that’s the issue,’ he says, looking up at her, watery eyes large behind the spectacles.

  ‘Our discussion?’

  ‘You had second thoughts about some of the details, if you recall?’

  Recall? No, she doesn’t recall. Mother’s death was sudden, and the days afterwards a blur.

  ‘I believe you chose the cherrywood coffin with the mauve satin lining?’

  She nods.

  ‘And a wreath of pink and white roses. The headstone was marble – those were all extras, you see, madam.’ His waxy face has a look of practised concern.