The Fledgeling Page 7

  This is my life now—it has come to this, she thought whimsically. To lie and wait for the milkman’s clatter, the postman’s knock and the dustmen’s greeting. For what else do I do? Watch the geraniums flower—the sparrows preen themselves, and wait for the clock to strike. This is the pause—the lull for the gathering of the forces before the last round.

  She shut her eyes for a while and, dreaming a little, dozed. The pain was quiet—the Monster sleeping. When she opened her eyes again the space between the geraniums was blocked by a large grey blur. Was it the dustmen come back again? But it wasn’t the dustman’s face. It was the large grey cat. He had reared himself up, and was on his hind legs pressing his face against the window pane, rubbing his ears against the glass lazily and luxuriously. He blocked out the light . . . ‘Smokey . . . Smokey . . .’ she called softly. The cat listened, ears up straight, then began rubbing his head against the glass again.

  ‘You missed the sparrow. . . .’ she said with satisfaction, and smiled. Presently, in spite of her apprehensions she drew up the covers and slept.

  In the cupboard-room next door, in his sister’s jeans and sweater, the boy slept too. He had flung himself on the old iron bed and, tossing uneasily in his sleep, had pushed off the head scarf. Even so, with the delicacy of his features and face accentuated by the powder and lipstick which his sister had applied, he could have passed as a girl. Only his ears gave him away—large and red—they were unmistakably those of a boy.

  CHAPTER V

  NONA, arriving late at the store, was frowned upon by Mr. Durton, the manager. He was a small pink-faced lewd old man who liked to put his hands on all his young assistants, and if possible on the younger women customers. He was in charge of the bacon and ham counter, and wore a filthy blue-and-white striped apron on which he wiped his hands, the tins which he was opening, and frequently, if necessary, his nose.

  The assistants, of whom there were six, wore white overalls, but being allowed only one clean one a week they could better have been described as grey. The grocery store belonged to a chain, and Durton had been the manager of this branch for thirty years. Thirty years too long in the opinion of the girl assistants, who loathed him and his unsavoury habits.

  Nona, in charge this week of the sandwich counter, from which they supplied the local offices and public house with ham-rolls and snacks, was a favourite of Mr. Durton’s, although she resisted his straying hands and loathed his dirty apron.

  As soon as she had arrived this morning there had been trouble over the opening of a new tin of ham. Young Wally was supposed to help with this, but this morning he had been sent to the bank. Nona, putting her counter ready for the day, had found that a new tin must be opened.

  She went down to the cellar and brought up a heavy eight-pound tin and went to ask the manager about getting it opened. Should have been opened and ready by now,’ he had snapped. ‘It’s almost half-past nine. You were late this morning, Miss Collins. A customer’s been waiting for some time. Young Wally’s gone to the bank, and I’ve no time to open tins now—I’ve got all the accounts to do with the cashier.’

  Nona got Joan to help her with the tin. They could not get the ham out; it stuck fast and no amount of shaking and coaxing would persuade it to slide out gracefully on to the marble counter. ‘Here—let me give a hand,’ said the waiting customer. He went behind the counter and took the tin firmly. ‘Got a cloth?’ he asked. Nona handed him a grubby tea-towel and with much laughter and encouragement he got the ham out—but not whole, alas—it was broken.

  Mr. Durton chose that moment to come out of the cashier’s office. He frowned when he saw the broken ham and heard the girls laughing with the customer.

  ‘Now then, now then. Enough of that noise. You girls get back to your work—the ham’s out now—and very carelessly too.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Nona meekly. ‘I’m not used to it.’

  ‘I am,’ said the customer. ‘Got tins like that in the Army—bully beef . . . terrible job to get ’em out. We had a cook who was a dab at it. Had ’em sliding out like peas from a pod.’

  Nona, buttering rolls and slicing the ham, looked up at him.

  ‘In the war?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes. Fine life it was. Never had a decent job since. Wish I was back again. But they wouldn’t have me now—too old.’

  So some people actually liked the life she thought, as she pressed the ham between the halved rolls and wrapped them in greaseproof paper.

  ‘I’ve got a young brother doing his National Service—he hates it.’

  ‘Pity,’ said the man. ‘Best time of your life.’

  That’s what they say about school, thought Nonie, putting the six rolls in a bag. She had loved school—but Neil had hated it.

  ‘My elder brother was killed in Cyprus,’ she said, handing him the bag.

  ‘Bad show that,’ said the man. ‘Ought not to send young Servicemen out there. Should keep that for the Regulars . . . how old was he?’

  ‘Nearly twenty-one—he’d almost finished.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said the man simply, taking the bag and handing her the money.

  She began slicing ham in the bacon machine, and was obliged to take it out when Joan wanted to cut some bacon. The van arrived with the trays of buns, pastries and tarts, and the morning’s bread. There was nowhere to put them. ‘Come along and get them unloaded,’ shouted Mr. Durton from the cashier’s desk. He was irritable because Nancy, the cashier, had lost three pounds which they couldn’t trace.

  ‘What a silly sort of shop this is,’ said Joan crossly, leaving the bacon to help unload the trays of food into the window. ‘The new self-service ones are much better. They’ve got a place for everything—and they’re clean too—with all the new refrigerated cupboards. Not old cellars full of beetles and rats like these are. If people saw where we keep the food they’d never come into the shop.’

  ‘Wait until the Sanitary Inspector comes again,’ said Nona. ‘He said last time that if storage space wasn’t improved he’d have to take action.’

  ‘He’d better take action over old Dirty’s apron,’ said Joan, ‘it’s thick with grease—and so are these overalls. Funny how he always gets the tip when the inspector’s coming. We always get clean overalls that day—and he wears a clean apron, the old beast.’

  ‘Hurry up and sign for those trays. Have you checked them?’ called the man of whom they were talking.

  ‘Got eyes all over his head like a beetle he has,’ said Joan. ‘Come on, Nonie, you call out and I’ll check.’

  The morning wore on but to Nona it was a torment. Nothing went right. She cut her finger badly, slicing sausage and was grumbled at by Durton for not using the machine.

  ‘It was in use I couldn’t keep the customer waiting while several pounds of bacon were cut,’ she said helplessly.

  ‘You’re all het up today. What’s the matter with you?’ he asked. Start late, end badly—that’s what I say. Time lost can never be regained.’

  There seemed to be no lull in the morning’s work—and all the time the thought of Neil ate at her. Would he be all right? Would anyone come? Would Gran let them in if they did? Half-way through the morning she remembered with a shock that today was the day when the social worker usually visited Gran. She felt frantic with anxiety and at lunch-time, when she had forty minutes free, she went to the nearest telephone booth.

  It was difficult to find out about Charlie. He was often away for the night—and on long runs no one knew when he would be back. The depot where the lorry which he drove for a firm of sand and gravel merchants was kept was a large yard with a small shack used as an office. In this the foreman sat checking the runs and the loads. It was this man who answered Nona when she hesitantly asked for Charlie. ‘Wait a minute—he’s due in now—hold on, I’ll see if he’s arrived.’

  She held on in the hot airless telephone box ignoring the repeated rapping on the glass of an impatient elderly woman waiting to make a call. At last ther
e was a breathless hurried voice again. ‘Wait a bit, missus—Charlie’s in—he’s coming as fast as he can.’

  The woman began rapping with her umbrella. Nona opened the door while still holding the receiver to her ear. ‘If you do that you’ll break the glass,’ she said. ‘Can’t you see I’m still waiting for my call?’

  ‘You’ve been more than three minutes,’ snapped the woman.

  Nona shut the door as Charlie’s slow throaty voice came over the wire. ‘What’s the matter? Anything up with Gran?’ he asked.

  ‘Not Gran, Charlie,’ her voice was lowered. ‘Are you alone there? Can anyone hear?’

  ‘Only the foreman and he’s doing his football pool—what’s up?’

  ‘Charlie—can you get off early tonight? Please try— it’s important.’

  ‘What’s up, Nonie? Let’s have it.’

  ‘Neil.’

  She heard an angry incredulous gasp. ‘Not back again?’

  ‘Yes. Charlie, try and get back early so we can talk it out in our room before I go into Gran’s.’

  ‘I’ll try—but why all the fuss? He’ll be fetched back same as last time.’

  ‘No,’ said Nona sharply, ‘he’s got to get away this time. You come home early.’

  ‘All right. I’ll try . . . but it’s no use. You should know that, Nonie. They’ll get him.’

  ‘Listen, Charlie! I’m going to get off early too. I’m going to say I’m sick. I’ll be waiting for you in our place.’

  ‘O.K. But I won’t promise anything, Nonie. You know how I feel about Neil.’

  ‘Charlie you must. Please. Get back early.’

  But he had hung up with an angry exclamation, and Nona gave up the telephone booth to the irate woman waiting for it. Charlie was angry just as she knew he would be. He’d never even asked her how she was, although he’d been away two nights up north. He had been furious last time Neil had quit. Couldn’t understand why the boy couldn’t take it. It was useless trying to make anyone understand things which only her twin and she herself shared.

  But this time Charlie had got to help. Gran had said so. His lorry was the safest and best way of getting Neil out of the country quickly. Gran had said she must persuade her husband. They didn’t realise how difficult it was going to be to get Charlie’s promise of help. They knew nothing of the troubles growing up between Charlie and her. Nothing of the doubts, suspicions and miseries arising constantly now between them. Charlie didn’t like Neil—never had. Perhaps it was because he was her double and it irritated him to see a boy in the image of the girl he had married. Perhaps it was the fact that she and Neil shared so much that no one else could. Each always knew when the other was unhappy, each could read the other’s thoughts when near one another. The sympathy between them was something which she couldn’t explain any more than Neil could.

  Charlie was not only jealous of Neil’s emotional pull on his wife; he was impatient and angry with Neil’s fear of everyone and everything. He was afraid of nothing himself and simply couldn’t understand anyone who was. To him Neil was not his wife’s adored twin brother who was not cut out for Army life—he was just a miserable yellow-bellied coward who quit.

  CHAPTER VI

  ‘THERE’S a letter for you, Mrs. Collins. I found it on the mat,’ said Alison Rhodes, as she cautiously opened the door of the patient’s room. She entered hesitantly, although Mrs. Collins had passed her the keys out of the window, for this was one of the homes in which she was never sure that she was welcome. Lately she had felt that old Mrs. Collins was perhaps not so resentful of her visits as she had been at first. She had liked to believe that there was a slight lightening of the face, an almost imperceptible relaxing of the tautness of eyes and mouth when she was greeted—but she was never sure.

  ‘A letter? That’ll be another one about Len. I don’t know that I can stand any more, Miss Rhodes. It’s strange how few stock phrases there seem to be when anyone’s dead.’ Nothing in the old woman’s calm demeanour showed the violent agitation which this visit was causing her. Behind that frail door was Neil—and Mrs. Collins neither knew nor trusted the visitor enough to confide in her. She stood up from the old wicker chair in which she sometimes spent the afternoons and Miss Rhodes said hastily, ‘Sit down, Mrs. Collins. Please don’t get up. How are you today?’

  ‘Same as usual—dying,’ said the old woman grimly, and this time there was no doubt about the smile. It flashed like silver from the sunken eyes and the old, still-beautiful mouth.

  Miss Rhodes placed a big square envelope on the table and accepted the chair her patient offered. She had noticed the crest on the back of the envelope.

  ‘I think this letter is from the Palace,’ she said gently. ‘Aren’t you going to open it?’

  Mrs. Collins’ heart gave a great jump—it was as if it gave a last cry for Len—but she said quietly, ‘Then it’ll be about the medal for Len. The Colonel wrote me that I’d be hearing soon. Len always gave me as his next-of-kin, you see. What was the use of giving Edward, his father? Never know where he’s likely to be.’

  She did not open the envelope at once but kept it in the palm of her hand. ‘Seems a pity to tear it open, might interfere with the battle,’ she said smiling whimsically. Would you be very kind, Miss Rhodes, and get me a knife then I can slit it open?’

  ‘Interfere with the battle?’

  ‘For the Crown,’ said the old woman, smiling again. ‘Didn’t you learn it as a child? . . . “The lion and the unicorn fighting for the Crown: the lion beat the unicorn all around the town. . . .”’

  ‘Oh, yes . . . I see now,’ and Miss Rhodes smiled too.

  She has a dimple, thought the old woman. What a pity she doesn’t smile more often.

  She looks quite human today, how could I ever have been afraid of her? thought Alison Rhodes. Oh how I wish I could tell them—make them feel that I care. That I don’t do this just for the sake of work: I do it because I want to help. I long to tell them . . . but my words come out in the stiff meaningless jargon of all these Social Services. Why, oh why, haven’t I got the easy flow of words which this old woman’s son has? Why? When I long so passionately to help?

  ‘Shall I find the knife in the kitchenette?’ she asked, getting up from the small prim chair which Mrs. Collins always placed for her. The old woman’s manners put those of many of her fellow workers to shame. No matter how ill she was, there was always the chair and a tray of tea at hand.

  ‘Don’t bother. I can use the scissors—look!’ She picked up the large pair of scissors with which she cut the wool for the rugs she made, and with one blade she slit the envelope. From it she slowly drew a letter on stiff white paper, which also displayed the red lion and unicorn at the top.

  ‘I have the honour to inform you that the Queen will hold an Investiture at Buckingham Palace . . . at which your attendance is requested. . . .

  ‘I am desired to say that you should arrive at the Palace between the hours of 10 o’clock and 10.30 o’clock and this letter should be shown on entering as no other card of admission is issued.

  ‘Two guests may accompany you to the Ceremony. . . .’

  Mrs. Collins put the letter down on the table and turned her face away. With a tremendous effort she regained her usual composure and handed it to Miss Rhodes. ‘It’s about Len’s medal—the Military Medal,’ she said tremulously.

  Miss Rhodes took the letter. . . . ‘The twenty-ninth . . . that’s the day of the Investiture. What a wonderful experience it will be for you, Mrs. Collins!’

  The old woman did not answer for a long time. Her eyes were on some faraway place, then she said, ‘Yes, it will be wonderful. I should dearly love to see the Queen, God bless her. But it’s a long way off—anything can happen before that.’ And she thought wildly, Yes, anything with my grandson hiding behind that door. Why, oh why, does he have to turn up today of all days? Why is it always like this? Aloud she said, ‘Shall I have to answer this immediately, Miss Rhodes?’

  ‘
As soon as you can. They have to know whether or not you’ll be there to receive the medal. The instructions are enclosed with the letter. Shall I see to all that for you? Whose names would you like for the tickets for the two guests?’

  ‘I don’t know that I’ll be able to go. Some days I can’t move—let alone walk.’ In her mind she was thinking frantically that perhaps by then none of them would be able to go.

  ‘I could drive you there in my car. I’m sure Nona will be able to get off work to accompany you. I suppose your grandson Neil won’t be able to get leave?’

  ‘It’s very good of you, Miss Rhodes. I’d dearly like to go. But it’s a long way off. No, Neil won’t be able to come.’

  ‘Only six or seven weeks.’

  ‘That’s a lot when one’s days are numbered.’

  ‘All our days are numbered,’ said Miss Rhodes sighing.

  ‘I’m always thinking about my childhood now,’ said Mrs. Collins musingly. ‘I suppose I long for the country and the trees and flowers. I’d love to see the country again and smell the grass.’

  ‘I’ll drive you there one afternoon. You’d like to see my mother’s garden, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘I would indeed. I lie here and look at the children on that bomb-site opposite. I know them all. Do you know, Miss Rhodes, I get quite excited at their games. I join in them—in their hide-and-seek and their follow-my-leader. I suppose I’m returning to my second childhood. . . .’

  ‘Were you very happy as a child?’

  ‘Yes, I was. I was brought up in a Home—or rather several Homes—with my sister Liz—and yes, we were happy enough. Don’t believe all you hear about the frustrated children without parents nowadays. We were better off without ours—we never missed what we’d never had.’

  ‘It’s such a lovely afternoon. What a pity you can’t see the sky from here!’

  ‘I can see the children and my geraniums in the window—and Smokey, the cat. Can’t have everything, can we?’