Lover (27 page)

I remembered to check my bag and pockets, just in case, but everything was still there. I felt ashamed of myself for my suspicion, and turned to make sure she hadn't looked back and seen me do it. That was when I caught sight of
him
, through the window of a café. Wearing his greatcoat over his uniform, head bowed, the smudgy, greasy window softening his hair, making it seem almost like a halo. A cup of tea stood on the table in front of him. I thought, stupidly, that angels don't drink tea. Then the brooch seemed to jump against my palm and I heard Dad's voice from very far away, ‘You youngsters don't have much fun, nowadays…'

The moment—it must have been only a moment—seemed to last a long time, and then he looked up at me, and smiled. I put my hand on the window, feeling as if it would just melt away and I could step through it, like Alice did through the looking glass. My heart was thumping like mad, and I seemed to have forgotten how to breathe.

I got a rude shock when a slovenly-looking girl with a broom appeared at the door. ‘We're closing, Miss.'

‘Oh, I don't want anything, I just… I've got something for this gentleman.' I don't know why I said that. It just popped into my head.

‘It's like I said, Miss, we're closing.' She was blocking the doorway, greasy, moon-faced, one hand on her hip. I could just see my airman through the crook of her arm. He'd bowed his head again and was tracing a pattern with one finger on the table-top. He didn't seem to be noticing either of us.

‘Please,' I said, ‘just for a moment. It's important. I won't trouble you.'

‘Oh, please yourself.' She stood aside, grudgingly, giving me just enough space to squeeze past.

A warden poked his head round the door, and when he took his helmet off, I recognised the man who'd helped me up and taken me to the shelter. He must have remembered me, too, because he said, ‘Good evening, miss. Nice to see you again. Just doing my rounds for the blackouts.'

The girl grunted. ‘I was just about to do them when
she
came in.'

‘Glad to hear it,' said the warden. He turned back to me. ‘You keeping well, miss?'

‘Fine, thank you.'

‘Jolly good. Well, I shan't keep you.' He looked past me, towards my airman, who was still sitting at the table, and smiled. ‘I can see you'll be well looked after, so I'll bid you goodnight.' He turned and left, and I could hear the wretched girl huffing and clattering behind me as I made my way across the room to the table. My airman hadn't looked up, and I suddenly felt very awkward indeed, because I hadn't thought what I might say to him—hadn't thought of talking at all, just imagined the two of us together, somehow. Words hadn't seemed important. I decided not to try to speak, but simply unclenched my fingers and put the brooch down, very gently, on the table. After a second, his head jerked up and he stared at me, blank and shocked at the same time, as if I'd just woken him from a dream.

‘Hello.'

He frowned at me. ‘Hello.'

‘I thought perhaps…the brooch. I thought you might want it back. My name's Lucy.' My voice didn't sound like mine at all. He didn't speak, just looked at me. ‘I thought you might not like to be without it.'

‘Oh… I don't mind. I gave it to you, didn't I?'

‘Yes, but…' His face was even more handsome than I remembered it. I knew I was staring at him, but I couldn't help it. ‘When I looked through the window…I knew it was you.' I was aware of the girl watching us. She'd put up all the blackouts and was leaning against the wall, arms folded.

‘I want you to have it,' he said. He pushed it across the table with his fingertips, and as I reached for it, our hands touched with a tiny electric shock. He drew back his hand quickly, and put it in his pocket.

‘I'm sorry, I didn't mean—'

‘Look,' he said, ‘take it. I don't want it.' He slumped in his chair, free hand tapping on the table-top as if he was waiting for something. I should go, I thought. He doesn't want me here. But I couldn't leave. I felt paralysed. I was so aware of my nearness to him that it felt as if my skin was on fire, and I stood there holding the brooch, trying to think of something to say and feeling like some silly schoolgirl with a ‘pash' on the games mistress.

Suddenly, he looked up. ‘She wants us to leave,' he said, jerking his head at the waitress. He pulled some coins out of his pocket, tossed them on the table, and stood up. ‘Can I take you somewhere?'

‘I don't know… I…'

‘I'm sure you need to get home. Before the raids.'

‘Oh. Yes. Well, thank you. The station. That would be very kind. I mean, I can manage on my own, if you'd rather…'

‘It's not safe round here. Women have been murdered— strangled and cut up. You shouldn't be wandering about by yourself; you don't know what might happen.'

‘Oh…it's very kind of you.'

‘One of them was attacked with a knife. Had her insides cut out.' His eyes seemed to lock onto mine, and I didn't know what to say.

‘Ooh…that's horrible! Don't tell me any more.' I heard myself laugh, stupidly.

‘I didn't mean to scare you.'

‘Well,' I gave him my brightest smile to show I wasn't afraid, ‘I certainly shan't be frightened with you.'

‘Of course not. I'll look after you. Where's the nearest station?'

‘Leicester Square. It was closed, before, but perhaps—'

‘Let's go.'

It was dark outside. He turned left instead of right. I followed him for a moment, afraid to touch him or stop him, then said, ‘Actually, it's the other way. I mean, that's quicker.'

‘Is it?' He laughed. ‘I don't know my way around. Not in the blackout, anyway. Haven't been round here, much.'

‘You're not from London?'

‘Coventry. I went away to school, of course.'

‘Yes… Is it nice, Coventry?

‘All right, I suppose. Same as anywhere.'

‘Where are you based?'

‘Hornchurch.'

‘So you don't get much chance to go back there. Back home, I mean.'

‘No. But I don't miss it, much. Not now.'

‘Because of your mother?'

‘Mother?'

‘I'm sorry, I didn't mean to…but you said, the brooch, you said it belonged to her, and I thought—'

‘Yes, it did. Belong to her. It would have gone to my sister.'

‘But surely—'

‘No. She died. Years ago. Car crash.'

‘That's terrible… I'm sorry, I don't know your name.'

‘Tom. Tom Matheson.'

‘My name's Lucy.'

‘Lucy. Look, the raid hasn't started yet, so…would you fancy a drink, or do you have to get home?'

‘Yes… I mean, yes, I'd like a drink.'

I wondered, briefly, if such behaviour could be viewed as delinquent, but pushed the thought quickly to the back of my mind: after all, we have met before, if only in a manner of speaking, and in any case, I was a whole lot safer with him than I would be on my own.

He took me to a quiet bar. Not many people, but they all seemed respectable types—no signs of drunkenness, at any rate. As soon as he saw the uniform, the waiter was straight over to serve us, and said the manager had told him the drinks were on the house! ‘Your money's no good here, sir,' and
lots
of admiring glances from the other customers. I felt disgusted with myself for revelling in this reflected glory, but all the same, it was rather nice. Tom, on the other hand, seemed slightly embarrassed by the man's effusiveness, although it can't be the first time it's happened; after all, the pilots are our heroes. But it was a bit awkward after that, fumbling for conversation and avoiding each other's eyes. I was very conscious that we were being watched, and wouldn't have minded betting that every single woman in that bar was wishing she could be in my shoes.

I said, ‘I'm sorry…'

‘What for?'

‘In the café. Arriving like that. I didn't mean to startle you.'

‘I don't mind.'

‘It is a coincidence, though, meeting again.'

‘Yes. Coincidence.' And suddenly, he was staring at me as if he wanted to memorise every detail of my face. ‘Coincidence,' he repeated, vaguely, and started patting at his pockets for a cigarette as if his mind was elsewhere. ‘Sometimes it's difficult,' he said, ‘knowing what to say, I mean. When you're with a lot of chaps all day.'

‘Must be better than being with a lot of girls. My office is like that—they can be the most frightful cats. What do you talk about? When you're not…' I jerked my head upwards.

‘Talk about? Oh…flying, I suppose. Aeroplanes. Very dull.'

‘Not if you understand it.'

‘I suppose not. But you don't want to hear about all that.' He smiled. ‘What do you do when you're not in your office full of frightful cats—go to the movies?'

‘Sometimes. Not recently, because of the raids. But I like them.'

‘I want to show you something.' He pulled a little piece of blue cloth, like an envelope, out of his pocket and laid it on the table between us.

‘Very mysterious. What is it?'

‘Open it and see.'

It was a cigarette card. ‘Robert Taylor! He's my favourite.'

‘There's another coincidence. I'd like you to have it.'

‘Are you sure?'

‘Why not? Now if it was Betty Grable…' He laughed, then looked serious again. ‘I only keep it because it belonged to my sister.'

‘You mean, your sister who…'

‘Died. That's right. I only had the one.'

‘Then you ought to keep it. It's special.'

‘It's that all right. That's why I'd like you to have it. You'll look after it, won't you?'

‘Yes, but—'

‘She'd want it to be appreciated.'

‘But why? I mean, why me? There must be dozens of girls who—'

‘No. There aren't. And you remind me of her, a bit. I've got a picture, somewhere.' He pulled a small, rather crumpled photograph out of the top pocket of his jacket and placed it in front of me—a studio portrait of a rather nice-looking girl in a gym-slip.

‘She's… She was…very pretty.' To be honest, I couldn't see that she looked much like me, apart from the hair, but then I suppose photographs don't always tell the truth about a person. ‘She's written something. “To Tom, with love from…” What's that?'

‘Maisie.'

‘But that's a Y… Yvonne?'

‘Oh, yes, well, that was her real name. We always called her Maisie. She preferred it.'

‘That's like my sister—her name's Margaret, but she hates it. Everyone calls her Minnie, even my parents.'

Tom put the photograph back in his pocket, and said, ‘The thing is…that cigarette card… I don't deserve to have it, really.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Well, it was very quick. The car crash, I mean. Head-on. There wouldn't have been…she wouldn't have suffered. But I never had time to… What I mean is, I was away at school when it happened, and we'd had an argument before I left. It was my fault we'd had the row, and I'd meant to write her a letter to say I was sorry, but somehow I didn't get round to it, and the day she died, I'd been with some other boys and we'd been, you know, playing tricks. Ragging. Anyway, we were caught, and we knew we were in trouble, so when I was summoned to the headmaster's study, I thought I was going to get a thrashing—for what we'd done, I mean—and then, when he told me there'd been a telephone call from my father, saying my sister…saying what had happened… and the awful thing was, I was relieved. Because I wasn't going to be beaten, you see. And it was only afterwards, walking down the corridor, that it really came home to me, and then I realised. I'm sorry. I don't know why I'm telling you all this. I suppose it's because you remind me of her, and I've always wanted to say I was sorry. Being her older brother, I should have protected her somehow, when the stupid thing was, she ended up protecting me, in a way. All the others got a thrashing, but I didn't. Because of her. And I'd meant to write to her, and I didn't.'

‘Nobody can see the future, Tom. And you couldn't have stopped her dying if you weren't there.'

‘I know, but… Look, you don't want to hear about all this.'

I held up the cigarette card. ‘Are you sure you want me to have this?'

‘I've said so, haven't I? Take it.'

He seemed angry—with me as well as himself—for saying too much, and pushed back his chair as if he was withdrawing from the conversation. It was so strange; when he was telling me the story about his sister, we'd seemed so much together, so intimate, as if we'd known each other for years, and yet when he stopped it was like sitting with a complete stranger, an unreachable stranger, with this strange sense of…isolation, I suppose. Yet I wanted so badly to comfort him. I put out my hand, across the table, but he didn't take it, just leaned back and stared at me with a peculiar sort of intensity that I couldn't fathom.

‘Tom, I'm sorry.'

‘About what?'

‘Your sister, what hap—'

‘It wasn't your fault.'

‘No, but—'

‘Will you do something for me?'

‘What?'

‘Will you let me see you again?'

‘Yes, of course.'

‘I want to see you soon. I don't know how much longer I've got.' He said it quite bluntly, and then continued before I could say anything, ‘Will you write to me? I'd like it if you did that. I'll give you my address. Have you got a pen?'

‘Here.'

‘Paper?'

I didn't have any, but the waiter brought some, and he wrote down his address, then tore the paper in two and asked me to write mine on the other half, which he pocketed. ‘Good. Now, I think I should escort you to the station.'