Now the War Is Over (7 page)

‘Umm?’ She had moved away again, preoccupied as ever.

Tommy forced the words out, his mouth twisting with each word. ‘When Dad – left . . . Was it – cos of – me?’

There was a silence. He heard her moving close to him again, leaning across the table, the pale green cotton of her apron level with his eyes.

‘
What?
’ Her tone was sharp, appalled, but she instantly realized that she did not want to have to force him to say it again. ‘Tommy – I don’t know what
you’re asking me.’

He looked up then, into her face, and saw her sad, guarded expression. She
did
know, he could see. Her face already gave him the answer.

‘Cos I – couldn’t – walk?’

His mother folded her arms and looked at him, head on one side. Then she pulled out the chair and sat opposite him.

‘Tommy – that was a very long time ago. You were only a babby then. Who told you your dad went away? Was it Melly? Is that what she said?’

‘No!’ He hurried to correct her. ‘She never – she just – said – he left . . .’ It felt as if he was crying inside but he kept the tears and his silent
sobs from the outside. He didn’t want to make it worse for Mom.

‘Your dad did leave – for a little while.’ Her voice was gentler now. ‘Only for a few weeks. He was . . . You know, it was only months after the war ended, when when
he’d first come home . . . A lot of the men who came back were in a state . . . Didn’t know what to do with themselves . . . And Danny, your dad – it was just that he had to go
off for a while, that’s all. Because of how he felt. It wasn’t you, son. It was just, being away and the army and everything. And then he came back to be with us – because
that’s where he wanted to be.’

He tried to smile. He felt that she was lying. Or half lying, or something. He didn’t know. But he knew Dad wished he was different, or that he wasn’t there at all. It was an abiding
feeling.

‘Now –’ His mother leaned forward and ran her hand over his hair. He lowered his head, sniffing. ‘Never mind all that – it was a long time ago. You’re my boy
– eh? And it’s Saturday. You can go to Dolly’s and watch your programme later.’

Tommy brightened. His favourite:
The Quatermass Experiment
.

His mother stood up. ‘What shall we do while they’re all out?’

He looked up at her. ‘Paint – the town – red?’

‘Oh, Tommy!’ Mom laughed. ‘Tell you what – I’ll just clear up a bit and then we’ll look at some of those books Melly’s been reading with you, eh? And
we’ll have the wireless on.’

Melly felt the usual swell of excitement as the tall gates of the Rag Market swung open, come one o’clock. Outside the road was full of carts and cars and the crowds
surged in, some pushing old prams, others holding bags, jostling and eager for bargains. She had been brought to this market all her life. It felt like a part of her.

‘Come on, wench – help me hang these up!’

She ran to help her father. He had his own stall now – a proper one, not like in the old days when they sold from pitches on the floor. There were wooden tables with metal frames round
them that you could hang things on. He was dealing in second-hand gents’ clothing: suits and shirts, hats, coats, shoes, ties. And he had got hold of some new sets of braces and some
cufflinks and collar studs.

Kevin, who at four was only just about as tall as the table, passed him up shoes and small items. Melly handed him the suits and shirts and Danny arranged them along the metal racks. She felt
proud, working next to her nice-looking, energetic dad and seeing people greet him and share chat and jokes.

‘What’s this?’ Bent over, he frowned, opening a bag which had ladies’ hats inside. ‘This lot’s Auntie’s, not mine – take ’em over to her,
Melly, will yer?’

Melly hauled the bag along to where Gladys had her stall, in a prime spot at the back of the Rag Market. Between them, covering ladies’ and gents’ clothing, they were doing very
nicely. Several of the other stallholders called a greeting to her as she passed. Melly knew all their faces. The market felt like a family.

‘Thanks, bab,’ Gladys said, as she arrived. She pulled a little bag from the pocket of her dark green skirt. ‘Want one of these?’

Melly reached in for one of Gladys’s favourites – mint humbugs.

‘Take your dad one. And tell him to get over here – he’s left me with the float. The Toby Man’s on his way round.’ The Toby Man was in charge of collecting the
rents, from the regulars who always had stalls, and the casuals who signed up to get one when they could.

Melly did as she was told. Dad’s stall was up and running now and he went to collect the money which he kept in his jacket pocket. Melly saw that Kevin was under the table for the moment
playing with a handful of marbles.

Melly stood by the stall and the noise about her faded. Much as she loved the markets, all the chatter and noise of the stallholders round the edges pitching their wares, the excitement of all
the different things for sale – crocks and bedding, clothes and ornaments and the mouth-watering smells of food from the stalls and cafes around the market – her mind took her off into
another place. . .

She walks slowly along the yard in Alma Street in her best, dark pink frock . . . He appears out of the Morrisons’ house. She slows her walking to a dawdle.

Reggie stands for a moment, hands in his pockets and in that second he catches sight of her with amazement. Who is that pretty girl? She walks closer to him and they stand face to face
and
—

‘Eh, bab – you deaf or summat?’ Melly surfaced from her sweet imaginings, which were very like a drama she had seen on Dolly and Mo’s television . . .
Two women stood before her, clad in bulky coats despite the summer warmth. ‘I said ’ow much is that pair of trousers?’

That evening, as she walked into the yard with her father and Gladys, every nerve in Melly’s body was alive with expectation. Would she see Reggie now? But the first
person she saw was Evie, walking up the yard as if coming from the lavatories. She walked with her eyes lowered as usual, but as they passed, she looked up into Melly’s face and gave her a
vague half-smile.

‘All right, Evie?’ Melly said.

Evie stopped. ‘Mom says . . .’ She was speaking as if in a rush. She looked fearfully at her own house and at that moment Irene appeared at the door.

‘Evie – gerrin ’ere – now!’

Evie lowered her head and hurried over to the house.

That night, it was quiet, despite being Saturday.

‘No wage coming in, I s’pose,’ Rachel said.

‘P’r’aps he’s got his feet up by the fire, having a nice cup of cocoa?’ Gladys suggested and they all laughed at this unlikely thought.

The next morning, when she left the house to go to church, the door of number four was wide open. The downstairs room was empty, the house silent. The Suttons had taken their few frowsty
possessions and done a moonlight flit – though there had been no moon to speak of.

All that hot August weekend Melly was full of an aching longing for Reggie to notice her. She was aware of him, wherever she was or wherever he was, in a way which made the
hairs stand up on her arms.

On the Sunday afternoon all the kids were outside in the yard. She could hear the television coming from Dolly and Mo’s. It felt strange and quiet without anyone in the Suttons’
house. Even though she never liked the Sutton girls much, Melly felt unsettled at the change. Cissy was staying over, though, so she had company to take her mind off it.

It was so warm that, for once, Mr Gittins was out in the yard too. He was on a chair, close to the factory wall, half turned away from everyone. Melly kept looking across at his limp figure. She
was fascinated by Mr Gittins. He always wore a hat – a battered trilby today. He had no hair, people said. His scalp was burned, puckered as a wasps’ nest. The running, screaming
children grated on his nerves and if they went close he would sometimes shout and lash out.

‘Come on, Melly, I’m gonna do your hair up,’ Cissy commanded. ‘You get a chair from indoors and this’ll be our salon.’

When Cissy bossed her Melly usually obeyed, though none too fast. She liked to put up a bit of resistance.

Gladys was sitting inside at her usual vantage point, at the end of the table, looking out across the yard, fanning herself with a folded newspaper. She shifted to let Melly take a chair out
past her. Melly carried it to their corner of the yard and put it down beside Tommy. She kept casting longing glances at the intent figures of Reggie and Wally Morrison up the far end, hunched over
their pride and joy. The two of them had clubbed together to buy an old Norton motorbike. Wally had waited for Reggie to come back on leave before they went to get it, yesterday.

She kept sneaking a look at them. Wally the wider, stockier of the two, his hair a few shades darker than Reggie’s. He was very aloof and always the boss. Reggie was slimmer, a shade
taller than Wally now. They were completely absorbed in the bike. She could hear the rumble of their voices as they exchanged comments, heads bent over, smoking, treading the butts into the yard.
Gladys would be after them to clear up, Melly thought.

Turn round
, she urged in her mind, towards Reggie’s curved back.
Look at me.
But the brothers were lost in the wonders of the bike’s engine. Reggie didn’t
even know she existed. As ever.

As she settled on the chair, near Tommy, Kevin came tearing across with a couple of his little pals and nearly charged into her.

‘Oi,’ Cissy said, comb poised at the ready. ‘Go on – shove off.’

‘Just stop getting in the way, Kev,’ Melly said. She felt scratchy and angry.
Reggie, Reggie
. . . His name beat like a pulse in her mind.

‘Right – I’ll put your hair up like mine.’ Cissy’s wavy ginger hair was caught up in a swinging ponytail. Melly winced as Cissy scraped the comb through her own
boring old brown hair. ‘Ow – go easy. That hurts!’

‘Sorry,’ Cissy said breezily. Melly caught glimpses of her pale, freckly hands moving around her head. ‘But beauty has to bear a pinch,’ Cissy instructed. Hair and
clothes were the main things Cissy seemed to think about. She leaned down and Melly felt her hot breath in her ear. ‘Hey – you fancy Reggie, don’t you?’

‘No!’ she retorted, all blushes. ‘What’re you on about?’ She didn’t ‘
fancy’
Reggie. The way Cissy said it made her sound silly and crude.
She barely knew what it meant to ‘fancy’ someone anyway. She felt a hero worship, a sense of looking at a higher being. She didn’t want Cissy anywhere near these feelings.

‘He’s too old for you,’ Cissy decreed. ‘He’s not gonna want a little kid like you. Wally’s
much
better looking, anyhow.’

Melly clamped her lips shut and sat with her face burning. Who the hell did Cissy think she was, coming and trampling all over this sweet, secret thing she felt? How did she think she knew
anything anyway? At that moment she hated Cissy. Cissy didn’t care about anyone – she always did just what she wanted. She, Melly, was the one who always had to look after people.

As she sat, red-faced, her head down, she realized Tommy was shifting about in his chair.

‘You all right, Tommy?’ she said. ‘D’you need to go?’

‘Yes,’ Tommy admitted.

‘Get off me.’ She pushed Cissy away. ‘I’ve got things to do.’

‘All right,’ Cissy said. ‘There’s no need to be so mardy. Just cos I said—’

‘Just shurrit – all right?’ Melly pushed on Tommy’s chair. She felt important now, in charge of things. All her little life she had taken charge. It was what she did
– keeping Mom and Dad happy; looking after Tommy.

She wheeled Tommy along to the lavs at the end of the yard. He could stand out of the chair on his turned-in feet and shuffle in to do his business, so long as he held on to something.

She waited outside, aware that Mr Gittins was only steps away from her. It was as if his uneasy presence tingled through her. She felt she ought to do something though she didn’t know
what. He looked normal from behind. He was sitting on an ordinary wooden chair, positioned so that his view was mainly of his own house, number five, and an oblique view along the yard. He was
another one, like Tommy, who scarcely ever ventured out on to Alma Street, let alone any further. Everyone was used to this, but now, looking at him, Melly felt very sad. Very rarely, one of his
old mates came round to the house but mostly he just stayed in with Lil.

Melly moved closer to him. Stanley Gittins sat very still and seemed to be staring ahead of him, his only movements that of his right hand raising his half-smoked cigarette to his lips, nipped
between finger and thumb. A broken thread of blue smoke rose from the tip of the cigarette. She ventured further. The right side of his face didn’t look too bad so far as she could see.

‘Hello,’ she said.

Stanley Gittins moved his head slightly, turning to her. He had no eyelashes. She caught a glimpse of the left side of his face and it was a strange, shiny pink. She waited, nerves on edge, for
him to shout, to tell her to get lost.

But he said, ‘Hello, missy. All right, are yer?’ His voice was low and gravelly but sounded ordinary enough.

Melly was taken aback. ‘Y-yes,’ she said. ‘Ta.’

He didn’t say anything else. She stood for a moment, thinking, he’s all right with me. She had a feeling that people
were
all right with her. She seemed to soothe them in
some way. She looked across to check whether Reggie could see her talking to Mr Gittins. She ached for him to look up. Reggie threw her the odd word now and then, but nothing more. She was just a
child in his eyes, she knew. He still had his head stuck down over the bike.

There seemed nothing else to say and then she heard the door of the lav open, so she went back to fetch Tommy, feeling gratified by what had happened.

She couldn’t be bothered to be cross with Cissy any more and let her haul her hair up into a high ponytail while Cissy rattled on about her favourite subject – John Christie and
Rillington Place, where all the murders had happened. Christie had gone to the gallows last month at Pentonville prison and Cissy had been full of it ever since.