Dead to Me (17 page)

It seemed to justify what she had done, and because of it she put the jewellery back where she’d found it, and returned the candlesticks and bonbon dish to the dining-room table. She had said she wouldn’t be greedy – and anyway they were bulky and heavy to carry.

She went out the way she came in, using her knife to close the latch again. A few moments later she was walking down the road again, her mission accomplished.

On arriving home she opened her handbag to count the money. But to her surprise, along with the money was the small silver jug, which she’d forgotten to put back. That pulled her up sharply, making her see the enormity of what she’d done. Burglary was a crime you got sent to prison for.

She sank down on to a chair, head in hands. It was a terrible thing she’d done, and she felt very ashamed that she’d allowed greed to overcome her conscience. Later she counted the banknotes and discovered there was fifty-five pounds, more money than she’d ever seen at one time before. Somehow, she felt alright about the money – money could easily be replaced, if you were rich – but the jug could have been a wedding present from someone dear to the owners.

Ruby looked up from her seat in the garden as Wilby came out. ‘Come and sit with me for a few minutes,’ she said.

The blossom on the cherry tree was just opening up in
the sunshine, and all the new leaves on the trees and shrubs were the sharp acid green of spring.

‘Something wrong?’ Wilby asked.

‘I just had a funny little feeling about Verity,’ Ruby admitted.

‘Sorry you cut her off? I did tell you that you’d regret it.’

‘I was too vile to expect her to forgive me now,’ Ruby shrugged. ‘I’m too ashamed to even admit to you what I said. But this feeling I had was more like a premonition. Like something was happening to her.’

‘Then you should stop being so pig-headed and drop her a line,’ Wilby said sharply. ‘That girl is the reason you are alive today. I don’t think you ever appreciated just how poorly you were.’

‘Sometimes things are broken beyond repair,’ Ruby sighed. ‘I really don’t ever want to see my mother again, I don’t regret telling her that. But I’ve left it too long now to even hope Verity might still care about me.’

‘Don’t you think with war likely to break out soon that people should say what is in their hearts?’ Wilby said. ‘In the last one everyone I knew lost someone, and I heard many women, including my own mother, speak of their regrets at not telling the person they’d lost how much they loved them.’

Miller came back on Tuesday
evening looking dejected. His shoulders were slumped and his eyes had lost their usual sparkle. ‘They don’t want me,’ he said, dropping his overnight bag to the kitchen floor.

Had he not looked so miserable Verity would have expressed delight that he didn’t have to go away.

‘Why on earth not?’ she asked. ‘You’re young and fit, what else do they need?’

‘It seems I’ve got a heart murmur. First I’ve heard of it, I’ve always been as strong as a horse.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘And dreadful to be told you’ve got something wrong with your heart. That is very worrying.’

Miller shrugged. ‘I won’t worry about something I can’t do anything about. But what I
am
concerned about is what I can do now I’m exempted on medical grounds. There won’t be any gardening jobs going, and I doubt any farmers will take me on if they don’t think I’m fit.’

‘I read in the papers they are going to dig up parks to grow vegetables for the war effort, and they are telling ordinary people to turn their gardens over to do the same. So maybe they’ll keep you on at Greenwich Park – and if not, there’s Hilly Fields and Chinbrook Meadows too, all within cycling reach.’

‘Umm, yes, but I dread people thinking I haven’t joined up cos I’m a coward.’

He sighed and turned away, and Verity sensed that he felt as if he’d been cut off at the knees, and was no good to anyone.

That evening, they barely spoke. Miller was brooding on what exemption would mean for him, and she was still full of guilt at breaking into the house in The Glebe. She had salved her conscience a bit by telling herself she would never do it again. And anyway, it would help the plumber she was getting to install the bathroom, as he had four children to feed.

Yet there still remained a little voice at the back of her head telling her that she was just a common thief, and a low-down one at that for robbing someone when they were away from their home. She had no way of silencing that voice, either.

Spring slipped into summer and war was now a certainty, the only unknown was when it would start. Gas masks and ration books were distributed. As it was against the law not to carry your gas mask, Verity covered hers in some bright blue velveteen that made it look like a chic handbag. Everyone was talking about rations, wondering how much food they would each get. They also discussed the merits of the sandbags being stacked against public buildings; some people thought they were an unnecessary eyesore, almost as pointless as boarding up Eros in Piccadilly. Kerbs, lamp posts and other obstacles were being painted with white stripes to help people see their way during the blackout, and that was another cause for amusement. Everyone seemed to be debating whether to have an Anderson shelter in their back garden or a Morrison
shelter which was like a reinforced cage, with a table top you kept indoors.

Drapery shops advertised blackout material for windows, reminding everyone it would soon be an offence not to have it, and many government buildings were already taping up windows. Yet despite all this activity in preparation for war, most people were very relaxed and enjoying the hot weather.

Verity could hardly wait to get home and sit out in her now pretty garden. Miller had rescued a little table from beside a dustbin in Blackheath, and painted it bright yellow. Using two stools from the kitchen, they ate outside most evenings, lighting candles when it became dark.

Having a real bathroom and constant hot water was a never-ending delight too. The plumber had done a fine job, and Miller and Verity had put up white tiles together and painted the walls above pale green. With some pretty curtains and a couple of plants on the windowsill, it looked lovely. Verity had told Miller she had used the bit of money her aunt had left her to pay for it, and she had even managed to convince herself that was true.

Miller was still working in Greenwich Park, but he had received word from the Department of Agriculture that he was likely to be transferred to another location on the outbreak of war.

‘They are already building air-raid shelters in Greenwich Park,’ he told Verity. ‘I heard a whisper too that the military might use the park for the duration. I wonder if they’ll kill the deer for food?’

It seemed very strange that despite the country almost holding its breath for the moment war would be declared,
everyone was so light-hearted. They knew the evacuation of children would start soon, and that food would go on ration, yet most people talked quite casually about where they would go if their house was bombed, often laughing about it as if it would be a huge adventure.

At Cooks of St Paul’s, however, it was very plain that England’s shopkeepers were not taking any chances, and sales rocketed as they stockpiled goods. Verity was now working permanently in the office doing invoices, rather than in a specialized department, so she saw these increased sales daily and noted which items were the biggest sellers. She found it amusing that corsets were barely ordered any more, yet women’s sanitary products, knitting wool, haberdashery and clothing were all flying out of the warehouse.

At the end of July, when Verity was called into a meeting along with all the other staff and the departmental managers, she assumed Mr Smailes, the Managing Director, was going to tell them Cooks was closing down. She didn’t actually mind; there had been so much talk about women taking over men’s jobs when the men were called up that she was quite excited at the prospect of change. However, Mr Smailes was adamant that the wholesale business would continue elsewhere, further out of London, where there would be less risk of bombing.

‘I’m sure you can appreciate that St Paul’s Cathedral is likely to be a target, and sited so close to it as we are, we think it would be folly to take the risk and stay here,’ he began. ‘We have found suitable premises in Hertfordshire, and so between now and the end of August I ask that you tell your departmental manager whether you want to move
with us, or not. All of our young men have already been called up, and I am sure many of the older ones will enlist in the coming months. But for those of you who are left, this is the time to make your mind up, move with us and start a new life in a safer place, or leave our employ and stay in London.’

A buzz of conversation broke out, people looking to one another, nodding or shaking their heads with either pleasure at the prospect of a new life, or horror at leaving London.

Mr Smailes clapped his hands to get their attention again. ‘Your departmental managers will be able to answer your questions, and rest assured that those who don’t wish to go with us will all be given references and will leave with our best wishes for the future.’ He paused and smiled at all those in front of him. ‘When it is all over – and providing this building, which has been housing Cooks of St Paul’s for over seventy years, is still standing – we will open again and we will welcome back all of you.’

‘I bet he won’t welcome Sweaty Betty back,’ Marilyn whispered. She was a new friend that Verity had made since she’d been sent upstairs to do invoices. Although she was quite a bit older than Verity – over thirty – and a plump, plain girl, she was great fun, always making Verity laugh.

Verity giggled. Sweaty Betty was a real stinker. She worked in haberdashery and it was said that the manager had taken her to task several times for smelling bad and putting customers off. Clearly she had a medical problem, because there had been no improvement. Even now Verity could smell her, even though she was three rows back.

It was raining at lunchtime, so Verity and Marilyn went up to the canteen for their break. ‘I’m gonna go, if they help us find somewhere to live,’ Marilyn said. ‘Dave and I have decided to get married before he enlists, and Hertfordshire has got to be a better place to live than Dagenham. What about you?’

‘I think I’ll stay put,’ Verity replied. It seemed to her that it would mainly be the married women with children who would want to get out of London, and they could be a dull bunch sometimes. ‘I fancy doing something exciting, like driving a train or putting up telephone wires.’

‘Driving a train!’ Marilyn exclaimed. ‘I don’t think they’ll be letting women do that. Anyway, how’s that lodger of yours? Jumped into his bed yet?’

‘No, I haven’t and I wouldn’t,’ Verity said indignantly. ‘We are just friends, and it’s nice.’

‘Bit of a pansy, is he?’

‘No, not at all,’ Verity retorted, wondering why everyone seemed to think that of any man with good manners and who spoke correctly. ‘He’s a gentleman.’

‘Some of the “gentlemen” I’ve met were the randiest, pushiest blokes ever,’ Marilyn said with a shrug. ‘Actually, I quite like that in a man, it shows they’re normal.’

On the way home that evening Verity thought about what Marilyn had said. She
had
thought of Miller in a romantic way on many occasions; she loved his sparkly eyes, the dimple in his chin, and the way his hair started to curl if he left it too long between visits to the barber. When he took his shirt off in the garden the sight of his muscular chest and arms, now tanned a shiny golden brown, made
her feel quite weak at the knees. She was guilty of lying in bed wondering what his kisses would be like too, or how he’d react if she stole into his room and climbed into bed with him. She wouldn’t, of course, attempt to do the latter. She could never be that forward, especially as she had no way of knowing if he ever had similar thoughts about her. She assumed he didn’t, because he’d surely have made some kind of move by now, if he was interested in that way.

Just two days after Mr Smailes had talked about Cooks moving to Hertfordshire, Miller got home from work to find a letter from the Department of Agriculture.

‘Well, blow me down,’ he said as he read it. ‘They are ordering me up to Scotland to work for the Forestry.’

Verity was horrified. She had been so certain they’d find him a position somewhere local. ‘Do you have to go?’ she asked, feeling as if she might cry.

‘I think it’s an order, not a request,’ he shrugged. ‘But forestry work is fine by me, I’d rather that than working in an abattoir, or at a sewage farm. Mind you, I’m not so sure about chopping trees down, I like to plant them.’

‘What will I do without you?’ she said, trying to keep her tone light.

‘You should get another lodger,’ he said. ‘You’ll need company when the nights draw in, not to mention when the bombing starts.’

Verity had to turn away and pretend to be engrossed in shelling some peas so that he didn’t see her eyes filling with tears.

That night in bed she cried silently into her pillow.
Miller had almost filled the hole in her life that Ruby had left. He was funny, good-natured, he helped her with chores around the house, and she could talk to him about almost anything. The prospect of being alone again filled her with dread. It seemed to her that she was jinxed, that everyone she was fond of left her. She was nearly seventeen now, but she hadn’t had a proper boyfriend, she didn’t even go to dances like other girls her age because she had nobody to go with.

She and Miller had been going to the cinema together every week since he came here, and they often caught a bus on Sundays out towards Farnborough to walk across the fields to Downe and have a bite to eat in the pub there. He was interested in so many diverse things, from animals and plants to ancient civilizations, and psychology too. He had once told her he’d studied several convicted murderers in an effort to discover why they did such appalling crimes. She had told him about the murderer John Lee in Babbacombe, ‘the man they couldn’t hang’.

‘I read up on him, absolutely fascinating,’ Miller replied with real enthusiasm. ‘A complete bad lot – or a madman – to strangle and stab the poor woman and then set fire to her house. I couldn’t find one redeeming quality in him, at least not in all the books and journals I read. He’s now the local legend.’

‘Ruby and I used to pretend his ghost hung around Babbacombe,’ Verity giggled. ‘But then someone told us he went to America when he got out of prison, and I think he’s actually still alive.’

‘Not a person I’d like to live close to,’ Miller said with a smile. ‘We should go to Madame Tussauds one day, the
Chamber of Horrors has all the famous murderers in there.’

They never got around to going there, like so many other things they’d talked about doing, and now Miller was telling her to get another lodger – as if anyone else would fit in here as well as he had.

She was very quiet the following morning as they ate their breakfast. She was tempted to tell him how much she was going to miss him, but yet afraid that was too forward.

‘You will write to me?’ he asked suddenly, looking at her anxiously. ‘I’d hate to lose touch with you.’

A wave of joy flooded over her. ‘Of course I will,’ she smiled. ‘As long as you write back and don’t find a Scottish girlfriend who wants to keep you all to herself. There will always be a bed for you here too, even if I do get a new lodger.’

On Saturday the 27th of August, Miller was to leave for Glasgow. Verity walked with him to Hither Green Station to wave him off. She could barely speak, she felt so sad, and when she did it was just trivialities to break the silence.

The platform was crowded with people, many of the women crying as they saw their husbands or sons off. Such a public display of emotion made the impending war so much more real.

‘You will come back and see me sometimes?’ she asked anxiously.

Miller put a hand on each of her shoulders and smiled down at her.

‘Why are you looking so worried for me? I’ll be safe where I’m going, and of course I’ll come back to see you.
It’s you I’m concerned about. Promise me you’ll run to the public shelter the minute you hear the siren?’

She managed a wobbly smile, afraid she might cry at his concern for her. ‘I promise,’ she said.

He moved his hands from her shoulders to either side of her head, tilting her face up to his. ‘I don’t think you know how much you mean to me,’ he said, his eyes looking right into hers. ‘All this time I’ve been too scared to say anything as I’ve sensed you’ve had a bad experience with a man. But I must speak out now, Verity, before I leave. You are the girl of my dreams.’