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Authors: Laura Wilson

BOOK: An Empty Death
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‘’Fraid not. I’ll find out, though.’
Stratton, who was expecting a further bulletin - this part of the chat usually took up at least five minutes - was momentarily surprised when Jenny fell silent and started fiddling with her cutlery. Then, realising what she was thinking about, and not wanting to engage with it, he wondered - the triumph of hope over experience, this - if he might be able to avoid the subject by ignoring her change of mood, and spent a minute or so staring into his teacup, trying to gather some energy. Finally, he said, ‘What’s up?’
‘Nothing, just . . .’ Jenny repositioned her knife for a further thirty seconds, then said, ‘I was thinking about that poor woman, last night . . .’
‘I know, love. But at least she’s alive, and she’ll be well looked after. And . . .’ Stratton reached across the table and squeezed Jenny’s hand, ‘last night wasn’t all bad, was it?’
‘Well . . .’ His wife inclined her head to one side and pretended to consider this. ‘It had a few moments.’
‘A bit more than just a few moments, thank you.’
Jenny grinned and wrinkled her nose at him, but then she frowned, and, after a brief hesitation, said, ‘Do you think it’ll be over soon, Ted?’
Stratton sighed. She’d been asking this, with the hopeful persistence of a child, ever since the invasion of France had begun two weeks before. Privately, he didn’t agree with the people who said that the war would be over in a month, but he wasn’t going to tell Jenny that. The odd thing was, though, he’d had the impression that she was going to say something entirely different - he didn’t know what, but not that. Perhaps he’d imagined it. In any case, he was too tired to pursue it.
‘I honestly don’t know,’ he said, ‘but whatever happens, we’ll manage. We’re a lot better off than some - like that poor woman last night. And when it’s over, we’ll have the kids back. That’s something to look forward to, isn’t it?’
‘Oh, yes.’ Jenny’s face lit up briefly, and then she frowned. ‘But they might think it’s even more of a let-down this time, coming back here after . . .’
Stratton, who knew what was coming next, cursed himself for leading the conversation into a potentially difficult area. Although Mrs Chetwynd, on whom Pete and Monica had been billeted, was very kind and couldn’t do enough for them, she was also upper-class and wealthy, and, when the children came back after the end of the Blitz, it had taken some time for them to settle back into their old life. Now, back in Suffolk since the flying bombs started, they were, of course, a bit older, and he thought - although he didn’t voice it - that the adjustment to home life would be as hard, if not harder, than it had been before. Jenny, who’d seen the children more recently than Stratton, fretted constantly about it.
‘They even sound like her now,’ she said. ‘It’s as if they don’t belong to us any more. They’re used to that big house, and all the space, and . . . oh,’ Jenny gave him a despairing look, ‘. . . everything.’
‘They’re still ours,’ said Stratton. ‘Especially Monica - she’s just like you. Anyone can see that.’
‘That’s just how she looks,’ said Jenny. ‘She doesn’t think like us any more. Neither does Pete.’
‘They’ll come round,’ said Stratton. ‘They’re good kids. They’ll grow up and be a credit to us, and give us lots of grandchildren, and we’ll have more time for doing things together.’ Realising that she was looking at him oddly, he added, ‘If you can stand the thought, that is. Come on, love, buck up. It’s not like you to be gloomy.’ More to divert her attention than from any desire for food, he added, ‘How’s that egg doing?’
‘Sorry, dear.’ Jenny jumped up and, grabbing a tea towel, went over to the cooker. ‘My saucepan! It would be the last straw if it boiled dry - it’s the only aluminium one we’ve got left. Doris heard they had some in at Tooley’s but they’d gone by the time I got there.’
 
After breakfast, Stratton kissed Jenny and strode, head down, through the now driving rain to the bus stop, reflecting as he did so that her frequent absences at the Rest Centre - which was where she was going today - made him appreciate her a great deal more. Not, he told himself, that he’d ever taken her for granted - at least, he hoped she didn’t think he had. There was nothing actually wrong with the meals she left, but somehow the house didn’t feel right without her in it and he hated eating alone.
By the time he got off the bus at Piccadilly, the rain had abated, although - Stratton squinted up at the sky - that was obviously going to be temporary. He sniffed the now familiar smell of smoke mingled with dust. Must have got it somewhere round here last night, too. Stratton hoped it wasn’t the station again. When West End Central had been destroyed in the Blitz of 1940, it had taken months to get back to anything approaching normality. Stratton made his way down the rain-slicked pavement of Regent Street, past the taped shop windows with their pitifully small displays of goods.
He turned down Vigo Street, round the corner of Savile Row, and into the lobby at West End Central to find three beefy-looking women involved in a catfight, with Cudlipp, the desk sergeant, shouting ‘Ladies! Ladies!’ and thrusting out his arms like a boxing referee in a vain attempt to keep order.
‘What was all that about?’ he asked Sergeant Ballard, who was waiting for him in his office, perched on a corner of his desk.
‘Sorry, sir.’ Ballard, who was tall, dark, neatly handsome and unconsciously elegant in a way that Stratton secretly envied but could not resent because he was a decent bloke and not flashy, slid off the desk and stood to attention.
‘As you were.’ Stratton waved a hand at him and sat down.
‘Yes, sir. They’re all married to the same man. They’ve only just found out.’
‘Likes the fuller figure, then,’ Stratton murmured.
‘Yes, sir. He’s a soldier. Got the three of them drawing allowances for him. They’re not happy about it.’
‘So I gathered. What else?’
‘Chap forging petrol coupons - caught him trying to flush five hundred of them down the toilet, apparently . . . More information on that NAAFI robbery, from Brighton . . . Someone with a basement full of army tyres . . . More hooch - this time it’s a club in Coventry Street. Five people paralysed, one gone blind. Came from a still in Dagenham . . . Trouble with the GIs at Rainbow Corner - again - they broke a window this time, bunging a bloke through it. Oh, and there’s some new information on those two robberies from last week . . . It’s all here, sir.’ Ballard placed a stack of papers on Stratton’s desk and withdrew.
Stratton began reading the details of the forged petrol coupons. It was unusual to trace forgeries back to their source because they were so well protected by the gangs. A good source, too - inspecting the sample, Stratton knew that he wouldn’t have been able to tell the difference. God, he was tired. What he needed was a nice uneventful day so he could recover. Fat chance.
Sure enough, ten minutes later Ballard stuck his head round the door. ‘Message, sir. Body on a bomb-site. End of Berners Street, near the Middlesex. The warden thinks it might be suspicious.’
‘Balls!’
‘Sir?’
‘Sorry, Ballard, not you. We had an incident a couple of streets away last night - flying bomb. Didn’t get a lot of sleep.’
‘Sorry, sir. I noticed your hands. The fresh air might perk you up a bit.’
Stratton regarded Ballard for a moment, reflecting that it wasn’t only his looks but his optimism and instinctive kindness which made him so popular with the girls. ‘I doubt it,’ he said, reaching for his hat and coat. ‘I feel as if I might fall asleep on my feet, like a horse. Or Arliss.’ Arliss, one of the old, steam-driven brigade, was the station’s most incompetent policeman.
Ballard grinned. ‘I always could prop you up, sir.’
‘You might have to,’ said Stratton grimly. ‘Come on. After all,’ he added, waving a hand at the paper-covered desk, ‘it’s not as if we’ve got anything else to do, is it?’
Four
T
hey hadn’t taken any precautions. Seated in front of her dressing table mirror, Jenny Stratton put her head in her hands. How could she have been so stupid ? She hadn’t even realised until Ted made that remark about grandchildren at breakfast. With all the business last night, she just hadn’t thought of it. And he hadn’t asked - well, why should he? It was her responsibility, not his, always had been. If only she’d remembered, warned him to be careful . . .
She couldn’t have another baby. They’d always said they’d have two, then stop, and they’d got one of each, which was perfect, exactly as they’d planned. She couldn’t face going through it all again, especially not now. Surely, as it had only happened the once, it would be all right? Of course, once was all it took, but just the same . . . It would be so unfair. If there were any justice in the world - which, frankly, there didn’t seem to be, at least at the moment - she wouldn’t be pregnant.
Her period was last week, so she wouldn’t know for ages . . . There was no point worrying - if she was, she was, and there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it. The alternative was illegal, and, in any case, she didn’t think she could face it. Perhaps she wouldn’t have to . . . Now she thought about it, she was glad she hadn’t said anything to Ted. No point worrying him over nothing. Let’s hope - Jenny crossed her fingers - she wouldn’t have to at all.
It had been nice, though, messing about in the bath and everything. Really, she was lucky - even after fifteen years of marriage, Ted was still keen on her like that, and she on him. A virgin when she married, Jenny hadn’t been entirely sure, despite euphemistical explanations from her mother, what to expect, and she’d been gratified to find that - after the first time, at least - it was not only comforting, but nice as well. But imagine being eight or nine months pregnant and having to sleep in the Morrison shelter, and what if a raid started just when—Stop it, she told herself. Be positive.
She stuck two of her precious remaining hair-pins between her teeth and, lifting up her hair, commenced winding it round a sanitary pad to make a victory roll. Although her chestnut hair was thick and naturally wavy (thank goodness) it was now lank and hard to manage - hardly surprising when there was no shampoo, and after last night the dish in the bathroom contained only an almost transparent sliver of soap which had to last them both for at least four more days.
Jenny opened the drawer that contained her small reserve of powder and lipstick. She felt guilty about buying cosmetics on the black market - Ted would be furious if he knew she was breaking the law - but it wasn’t fair to expect her to do without them altogether. Even if no-one else cared about her nose being shiny, she minded. And, she reasoned, whatever he might say, Ted wouldn’t want her to neglect her appearance. She looked quite tired enough as it was . . . She’d look a jolly sight worse if she were pregnant, though. All that standing in queues really would be tiring, especially later on . . .
‘Don’t,’ she said to herself. ‘It’s going to be fine.’ She applied the barest minimum of the precious powder and gave her hair a final pat before picking up the photograph of Pete and Monica and giving it a wipe with her sleeve before kissing it. ‘Have a nice day,’ she murmured. ‘I’ll see you later.’
Still, present worries very much aside, as Ted had said at breakfast, they were fortunate. Their house - unlike poor Mrs Ingram’s - was still standing and the children were safe, and, even if Pete’s handwriting did seem to be getting worse with each letter, at least he was too young for the call-up.
She donned her coat and headscarf and left the house. Walking briskly through the forlorn streets to the Rest Centre, she passed boarded-up windows, cracked panes and houses piebald with flaking plaster. Crossing the top of Larkin Avenue, she inspected the huge, ragged crater where the flying bomb had plummeted to earth, obliterating Mrs Ingram’s house and the one next door. In front of them, a beech tree lay uprooted, and further down another, torn apart by the explosion, dripped sap like blood. Looking down, she saw near her feet a broken lampshade which had either rolled or been flung to the edge of the mound of debris, and, next to it, what looked like the corner of a board game. Somehow, those little relics of people’s lives seemed more shocking than anything else, and for a moment she thought she was going to cry. Pulling herself together, she blew her nose, said a hasty silent prayer for Mrs Ingram, and hurried on to the Rest Centre.
 
She hung up her coat in a narrow hallway papered with notices about water restrictions, warnings not to waste coal or paper and exhortations to eat vegetables (cavorting potatoes and carrots with little faces). As she folded her scarf and put it into her handbag for safe keeping, she heard snippets of conversation from the next room. ‘Fair knocks you sideways . . . Expected home any day now . . . They find houses for them French refugees quick enough, but not for our people . . . Had me head under the pillow, but the bed was covered in broken glass . . . Right near you, wasn’t it, that one last night . . .’
The Rest Centre was a school, taken over four years earlier and hastily equipped with trestle tables, rough blankets, pails as extra lavatories and a small amount of first aid. They were rather better off now, thanks to the WVS, the Red Cross and the London County Council, with a clothing exchange and a supply of milk for babies, although the food - soup, bread and marge with occasional jam - was still workhouse fare, and the process of rehousing bombed-out families was often only fractionally less chaotic than it had been in 1940.

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