Shoes for Anthony (32 page)

Piotr had let me carry Father's camera and said I could take three pictures. I wanted to choose wisely, so I stood and stared down into the viewfinder. I was hoping to see the destroyers sitting in the bay, but all I could see was a dark smudge.

‘I can't see anything,' I said, my mouth curling upwards at one corner.

‘You've got your finger over hole,' said Piotr, taking it from me. ‘Here. Let me show you how to hold it.'

The camera was a Brownie 620, a black-leatherette-covered metal box with rather smart geometric designs in nickel chrome and black enamel on its front. Father had taken part in a fishing competition and won it for catching the largest trout. Mam hadn't been that impressed, because she didn't see the point in it. Apart from weddings, there was little reason to have a camera. It was an entirely unnecessary luxury. Mam would rather he'd been allowed to keep the trout. ‘You can't eat a camera,' she said when he brought it home. Nobody had disagreed with her.

‘There are two viewfinders, here and here,' said Piotr, showing me. ‘And a shutter release lock, here. See?'

I nodded.

‘Do you know what shutter release lock is?'

‘No.'

‘It doesn't matter. You look there, press that, and hey presto, you've taken a photo. Here. You try. Take picture of me with Bethan.'

He handed me the camera and grabbed Bethan, who squawked with delight. ‘I haven't fixed my hair!' she protested as he pulled her into him.

‘Let the wind take it!' Piotr laughed. ‘Now keep still.'

I stared down and found them. They were leaning against the white-painted railings of the promenade, behind them the backdrop of a glistening sea. Bethan curled into him like a cat finding a warm lap. If the beach hadn't been full of vehicles and men and the rag and bones of war, it might have made for a nice picture. I took it anyway, smiles frozen for evermore, a moment captured. I looked up.

‘Taken it,' I said, beaming. ‘That's my first ever photograph.'

‘Well, then,' said Piotr, ‘take next two, and then it's my turn.'

I turned back towards the expanse of beach to my left, the sea breeze pummelling my hair, the brine sharp in my nostrils. I wanted to get a picture of all the battleships out at sea, but the viewfinder was restrictive.

‘Hey!' a voice called up at me from the beach. I unsquinted my eye and looked down. ‘No pictures!' It was an American sergeant, his face scowling.

‘It's okay,' said Piotr, stepping forward and waving down. ‘He means no harm. It was my fault. He didn't know it wasn't allowed.'

The American made a low grumble, hands squarely on hips. ‘Fine. But take better care! This is a secret operation!'

Behind me, Bethan gave a small snort. ‘Secret operation,' she whispered, ‘Stretching for as far as the eye can see. Come on. Let's go to the Seabank.'

The Seabank Hotel was the swankiest place I had ever been. There was wallpaper and silver cutlery and curtains with satin bows. ‘Look,' I whispered, pointing down, as we were shown into the dining area. ‘What's that?'

‘Carpet,' said Piotr.

I stared down and frowned. ‘How come it doesn't get dirty?'

‘It probably does,' said Bethan, following me.

‘Makes the floor all bouncy, doesn't it? It's weird.'

‘Bay view table?' asked the waitress, looking over her shoulder towards Piotr as she led the way. She was petite, wore a short black dress with a white apron, and had pale blonde hair tied up into tight curls.

‘Yes, please,' said Piotr.

Reaching a table by the window, the waitress stopped and gestured with her arm at the bay view. ‘I'll bring the menus presently,' she told us.

‘See that,' said Bethan, pointing to some land in the distance as we sat down. ‘That's Somerset and Devon.'

I stared out of the window in the direction Bethan was pointing. I didn't really know what Somerset and Devon was, but I tried to look enthusiastic all the same.

The restaurant was empty. Turned out the hotel was being used as a billeting base for the Americans, and with them all out training, we had the place to ourselves.

‘They're all off to France,' said our waitress, returning with the menus and handing them to us. ‘Going in days, they reckon. I'll be glad of it. They've been a handful, to say the least.' She stood attentively and reached into her pocket for a small notepad and pencil. ‘Anyways, what can I get you?'

‘Do you have ice cream?' asked Piotr.

‘Yes we do. Vanilla. Two scoops or three?'

Bethan and I shot each other astonished looks.

‘I think three scoops all round,' said Piotr, grinning.

‘I forget,' said Bethan, as the waitress wandered off towards the kitchen. ‘Hotels and restaurants aren't on rationing. You can get whatever you want, if you've got the money.' She shook her head with wonder. ‘Three scoops! I can barely believe it.'

I sat, elbows on the table, chin resting in my upturned palms, and stared out of the window. A large transport plane was flying overhead, making the windows buzz, its large lumbering frame prowling slowly off over the channel. ‘They're on the move, aren't they?' I said, straining to see the last of its tail wing. ‘It's like when the starlings gather at dusk. You know they're off.'

‘I've got an idea,' said Bethan, chipping in. ‘Why don't we pretend, for half an hour, at least, that there's no war. We're just here, in this hotel, and we're going to eat ice cream. And it's going to feel normal, like it used to. And we're not going to think about what's going to happen. And we're not going to think about anything gloomy or dark. We're just going to think about ice cream. And what a glorious day it is. Deal?' Her eyes were bright and sparkling.

‘Deal,' said Piotr, placing his hand over hers. They both looked towards me.

‘Deal,' I said.

The ice cream came in a cut-glass bowl set on top of a miniature doily in a saucer with flowers round its rim. Three scoops of creamy vanilla ice cream – the proper stuff, not the thin, watery business we'd had for the past five years, but proper, thick, stick-to-the-top-of-your-mouth ice cream that you had to suck off the spoon. The three of us sat in total silence, occasionally shooting each other ecstatic looks.

‘I want to lick my bowl,' I said, as I swallowed the last spoonful. ‘Can I, Bethan?'

She shot a look over her shoulder. The waitress was behind us, folding napkins at another table. ‘Go on, then,' she whispered, ‘but do it quick, while she's got her back to us.'

I picked up my bowl and shoved my face into it, licking my tongue into every crevice of the cut glass.

‘Told you he was like a dog, didn't I?' said Bethan, nudging Piotr.

‘I'm bit jealous,' said Piotr, picking up his own bowl. ‘Keep a look out. I'm going in.'

Bethan gave out a small gasp of shock as Piotr began ravenously licking out his own bowl. She shot a panicked look back in the direction of the waitress.

‘Go on, Bethan,' I said, running the back of my hand across my lips. ‘You've got loads left in there. We might never have ice cream again. Not if Hitler wins.'

‘No,' she whispered back, her eyes frantic at the thought of the impropriety. ‘I couldn't possibly!'

‘Go on,' said Piotr, with a wink. ‘We've done it. Now it's your turn.'

She glanced between us, her mouth curling into a smile. ‘Oh, all right,' she said, eyes filled with mischief. She picked the bowl up and tentatively licked the inside rim.

‘You all done, I see,' said the waitress, suddenly appearing at Bethan's shoulder, a tray under her arm.

‘Sorry,' replied Bethan, trying to compose herself. ‘I was just … well … goodness, this is delicious, isn't it?'

‘Will there be anything else?'

‘Just bill please,' said Piotr, trying to stifle a laugh.

The waitress stacked our empty bowls and saucers onto her tray and sauntered back to the kitchen.

‘You've got ice cream on end of your nose,' said Piotr, dabbing at it with his napkin.

Bethan's forehead fell into her hand. ‘I've never been so embarrassed,' she whined. ‘Of all the things to be caught doing.'

But I couldn't be of any help. My ribs hurt from laughing.

‘How's Father?' said Bethan, throwing her handbag down onto the settee.

‘No change,' said Alwyn, who was sitting in the parlour, trying to polish a shoe with his one good hand. ‘But then, he's not worse. Mam's up there. Try and get her to take a rest, Bethan. She's looking ragged.'

Bethan nodded and turned to go upstairs. ‘Thanks for a lovely morning, Piotr,' she said, softly, her hand brushing against his. ‘We had such a time. Proper treat.'

Piotr nodded and watched her trot up the stairs.

‘Pretty girl, my sister, ain't she?' said Alwyn, glancing up towards Piotr. He made a thick, hawking noise in the back of his throat and spat onto the toe of the shoe wedged between his knees. Piotr blinked and looked back towards him, an unspoken understanding between them.

‘Well,' said Piotr, a small, awkward smile resting fleetingly on his lips. ‘I should get up the mountain. Fetch that radio.'

‘No need,' said Alwyn, taking his blackened brush to the toecap. ‘Emrys went up there with that fella from St Athan.'

‘Captain Willis?' said Piotr. ‘He was here?'

Alwyn nodded. ‘Seemed daft to make him wait. So Emrys took him up. Looks like you've got the rest of the day off.'

‘Where's Emrys now?' I said, picking an old comic out from a heap of newspapers.

‘Up the Labour Club. There's going to be a village meeting about this German. People are twitchy. Want to know what's being done.'

‘What time?' asked Piotr, reaching into his waistcoat pocket to check his watch, and I remembered searching the mountain for it – his father's watch – and was happy that we'd found it.

‘Three-ish. But Home Guard's in charge. So more ish than three.'

‘Thanks. I'll get van back to Mr Hughes. See you up there.'

I flicked open my comic, my eyes drawn towards a favourite escapade of Desperate Dan. He was stopping Hitler's warships with a giant magnet and shooting his planes down with a peashooter. I sat reading, the only noise the occasional spit and scrub from Alwyn.

‘You see anything funny going on with Bethan and our friend,' said Alwyn, his voice low and careful, ‘you tell me.'

I didn't look up.

‘Are you listening, Ant?'

I felt a prickle of something awkward creeping up the back of my neck. I squirmed on my seat, refusing to look up. I knew my brother. When he decided he didn't like something, there was no turning back. He would have it out of me.

‘Dunno what you're talking about,' I mumbled, eyes firmly down.

‘You know full well what I'm talking about, boy. And with Father incapable, it's down to me to keep an eye on things. Do you understand?'

My brain was a jumble of noise as I panicked, determined to stop myself saying the wrong thing. There was something between Piotr and my sister; I knew it, but to tell Alwyn would feel like a betrayal. Allegiances were shifting. Never tell.

‘Ant!' he growled. ‘Do you understand?'

Above us, there was the sound of footfalls on the stairs. ‘Enjoy your ice cream?' said Mam, running her hand over the top of my head.

I looked up at her and nodded. She looked drawn, dark rings under her eyes. She mustered a smile. ‘Good. Good.'

‘You going up the Labour Club in a bit, Mam?' asked Alwyn, tucking his polishing brush into a small bucket. ‘Bethan can stay here.'

She shook her head. ‘No, I want to stay with Father. You can tell me what's said. What's to be done, anyway? We should set fire to the bracken and burn him out.' Her voice sounded tight, angry.

Alwyn mumbled in agreement. A flash of that night in the rain came to me, Ade's face looking up towards the rockfall, his excited eyes, telling me he'd seen a leg, slinging the rifle forward. I blinked and Mam's voice drifted in.

‘Ant? Did you hear me? There's rabbit stew in the pot. If you're going out, have a bowl before you do. And be up and see Father. You've not been in to him all day.'

The walk to my parents' bedroom was one I had done a thousand times, but now every step was filled with dread, my legs heavy and reluctant. It wasn't that I didn't want to see Father; I was just anxious that I would see him in a state I wouldn't want to remember. The imprint of him in my mind was of a strong man, tall and broad, waistcoat on, sleeves rolled back to the elbows, active: an oak of a man. Yet with every visit to his bedside, that memory was being eroded.

Bethan was wringing out a flannel in a bowl, the sound of the water falling through her fingers gently filling the room. I went to the side of the bed, one hand on the metal bedstead at the end, the other hovering awkwardly over the patchwork quilt. The quilt was the only thing Mam had ever inherited; it was her solitary richness, left to her by her mother, who had stitched it by hand during one harsh winter when the snow, so the legend went, was as high as the bedroom windows. It was lovely to lie on, eyes shut, letting your fingers journey across the different textures: rough calico, smooth cotton and that one patch of something velvety.

Father's eyes were half-closed, his breathing laborious. His jaw lay slack, his mouth slightly drooping to one side. His hair was pressed flat against his forehead, and he gave off a faint odour that lay somewhere between stale sweat and rotting fruit. I stared at him. He was forty years of age. His hair was still jet black, not one fleck of grey yet to trouble him. I wanted to see him old, white hair cut close at the nape, a cap covering a bald patch, trousers held up with braces that were starting to look a little big, hair creeping out from his ears, shoes that were always polished properly to put the youngsters to shame, twinkling, watery blue eyes folded into smiling creases, a half-drunk pint and a game of dominoes, then showing another boy, perhaps my son, how to thread a worm and catch a fish. It wasn't the death I feared; it was the absence.