Питер Ловси - On the Edge

Rose filled the teapot and went in search of the civil servants. They’d managed to corner her father and were telling him about the inner workings of the Stationery Office. He was reacting with every muscle of his face, as if no subject interested him more passionately. By the nature of his occupation he was a splendid listener. She’d watched him earlier doing his stuff with the Air Force. Dear, generous-hearted Daddy.

It would be folly to go home with her parents, sweet as they were. Between Mummy’s sharp questions and Daddy’s spirituality she’d be confessing everything before the train left Waterloo.

What a shock they’d get! She had never so much as hinted that the marriage was unhappy. The few Saturday afternoons she’d taken Barry back to the Rectory he’d played the part of the loving husband and she’d been grateful for the effort he put into it. The fact that he’d spent the previous evening in the arms of a tart in some hotel room seemed as unthinkable as Daddy dropping an ‘h’ or Mummy a stitch.

How, then, could they even begin to comprehend the truth about Barry’s death and her part in it?

Gascoigne the civil servant appeared beside her. ‘My colleagues and I will be leaving in a few minutes, Mrs Bell.’

‘Thank you for coming.’

‘It was a pleasure.’ He coughed. ‘That is to say, thank you for your hospitality. One small matter I wished to mention. Mr Bell left a few personal items in his desk including a photograph that may be of some sentimental value, a fountain pen and, I think, some tickets for a dance. I placed them in an envelope for safe keeping.’

‘I don’t suppose they’re important.’

‘Ah, but I wouldn’t want to dispose of them without your seeing them.’

‘Could you put them in the post?’

‘I’m concerned about the possibility of the pen leaking over the other things. Would you like me to arrange for someone from the depot to bring them here? It didn’t seem appropriate today.’

‘That’s all right. I’ll come to the depot and see if they’re worth keeping.’

‘Really? I don’t want to put you to any trouble.’

‘I’ll let you know when I’m coming.’

After repeating his offer to do anything of practical help that Rose could think of, Gascoigne gathered McGill and Tremlett and left. For a moment it appeared as if the Kettlesham Heath crowd were lining up to say goodbye as well. Not so. Rex Ballard still had something on his mind.

‘I suppose you haven’t run into any of the girls lately?’

‘The girls?’

‘WAAFs, my dear. Your fellow-plotters.’

Rose’s pulse beat faster. Rex was one of those people who put you at ease and then poleaxed you with something he’d discovered. He’d found out about the funeral. What else did he know?

‘I think we all went our own ways. One met so many people in the war.’

‘True.’ He looked wistful. ‘They’re a very insipid bunch on the station now. No sense of fun. I wouldn’t mind having a get-together one weekend with some of the wartime crowd. A sort of reunion. Do you think it’s a good idea?’

Was that all he meant? The relief!

‘I’d need to think about it.’

‘We’d have to find out where they are now, of course. You’ve lost touch with everyone, have you?’

With uncanny timing, her mother pushed a plate of trench cake between them. ‘Far from it, Squadron Leader. Rose was telling me just now that her ex-service friends are all she’s got in London, weren’t you, dear?’

Rose sidestepped. ‘Mummy, we’re talking about Kettlesham Heath now, not Hornchurch. I met Rex at Kettlesham Heath.’

‘Oh, I’m out of order as usual, am I? Have some cake anyway.’

‘It looks delicious. Unfortunately I’m not the cake-eating type, Mrs Mason, but I say, if there’s another Spam sandwich...’

While her mother went off to cut more bread, Rose let it be understood that a squadron reunion wasn’t to her liking. She told Rex candidly that she’d regard it as an ordeal rather than a pleasure. He said he sympathized. However, in case she changed her mind later, he’d let her know if the idea came to anything. Soon after, the RAF party set off for Suffolk in their Standard 12.

When her parents finally left with Aunt Joan they all but dragged her off the doorstep and into their small car. She escaped by undertaking to visit them at the earliest opportunity. They also extracted promises that she would say her prayers each night and finish every crumb of the trench cake. She thought, I’ll need more than prayers if I do.

Alone in the sitting room Rose threw off her shoes and collapsed on the settee. Her legs ached, her head was ringing from being the focus of so much conversation, but the sensation of relief was like champagne. Barry was buried and the funeral was over.

She was beginning to think that she’d reward herself with a sherry before facing the washing-up when she heard a sound from upstairs. Someone was in her bedroom. What she’d heard was the loose floorboard in front of the wardrobe.

It frightened her. She’d quite convinced herself she was alone in the house. She sat up, reached for her shoes and put them on, at the same time checking mentally which of the guests had definitely left. She glanced out of the window. No cars were left in the street.

Another creak from the floorboard.

She couldn’t fathom who it could be, or why they should be where they were. The noise definitely hadn’t come from the bathroom. Whoever was up there was creeping about, not wanting to be discovered.

That stupid remark of Rex Ballard’s crept into her mind, about Barry always coming back. Stupid and irresponsible. This time Barry couldn’t possibly come back. Yet she’d heard that board creak a thousand times before and it had always been Barry upstairs.

She stood with her hand on the banister rail, listening. She ought to have called out and asked who was there. Her throat wouldn’t function. She was going to have to go upstairs and look inside that bedroom. If she didn’t face it now, she’d never be able to sleep in the house again.

The landing light was on, but that meant nothing. It had got dark in the last hour. People would have needed the light to use the bathroom.

She told herself this had to be done. Without pausing, she mounted the stairs, crossed the landing and opened the bedroom door.

The light wasn’t on in there. The light from the landing picked out the figure of a man in front of the wardrobe dressed in Barry’s demob jacket.

Rose caught her breath and took a step back.

‘What are you doing?’

He turned. ‘Hello, Rose.’

It wasn’t Barry, of course. It was Barry’s oafish brother-in-law, Ronald. And Daphne, his harpy of a wife, stepped out of the shadows and took her place beside him. They’d been in there in the dark, communicating in whispers.

‘Has everyone gone, then?’

‘I supposed they had.’

‘Didn’t you know we were still here?’

‘Hope we didn’t frighten you, Rose.’

‘What the hell are you doing in my bedroom?’

Ronald was a master of the art of bluffing his way out of embarrassing situations. He had plenty of practice, for his manners had always been abysmal. ‘Merely trying on one or two of Barry’s jackets, my dear. Seeing that you’ll have no further use for them, I thought I’d offer to make some room in the wardrobe. It’s not a bad fit really, is it?’

‘Take it off.’

‘There’s no need to take offence, Rose.’

‘Isn’t there? Who invited you up here? I didn’t.’

Daphne, long resentful of Rose annexing her brother, bared her claws. ‘We didn’t expect you would. Barry wouldn’t have thought twice about it. He was sweet-natured.’