Sons and Daughters (23 page)

Paul said his work for the Young Socialists wouldn’t leave him much time. But think how rewarding it would be, said Henrietta. Paul said he didn’t know much about old maiden ladies. There weren’t any in his family, he said, and how rewarding are they, anyway? Oh, satisfaction at making them happy will be very rewarding, said Henrietta, and couldn’t you spare a little time in the evening, and a little more at weekends? Touching his foot under the table and fluttering her eyelashes, she said they could do a lot together at weekends.

Blimey, thought Paul, what does a lot mean? A lot of what?

‘What will the work entail?’ he asked.

‘Oh, doing the place up, painting and decorating and all that,’ said Henrietta. ‘Granny, of course, will pay for the paint. Oh, and the furniture.’

‘Does she know she will?’ asked Paul.

‘Not yet,’ said Henrietta. ‘I wanted to have this talk with you first.’

‘I’ll have to think about it,’ said Paul. ‘Oh, do think in a positive way,’ said Henrietta, ‘I’d be heartbroken if I couldn’t have your support.’

‘I’ll think about it, I promise,’ said Paul.

‘It’s been a lovely lunch,’ said Henrietta, again playing footsie with him.

‘Rewarding,’ said Paul.

When he got back to the office, he found he couldn’t sit down. His chair had a leg off.

‘Well, Mother O’Reilly, look at this,’ he said.

‘Your chair?’ said Lulu. ‘Yes, it fell over. I heard it. Hard luck. Oh, and I gave your lunchbox to a visitor. Unemployed and starving. Victim of uncaring Tory governments.’

‘What I want to know is how the chair leg fell off,’ said Paul.

‘Rotten workmanship in a capitalist furniture factory,’ said Lulu. ‘Well, that’s my theory.’

‘It’s not mine,’ said Paul, and regarded her under lowering brows, so to speak. Lulu’s specs shone with innocence. ‘You hussy, where’s my umbrella?’

‘What’s your beef?’ said Lulu.

‘Dark suspicion,’ said Paul. ‘It’s going to lead me to tanning you.’

‘You lay just one finger on me and I’ll sue you,’ said Lulu. ‘Enjoy your lunch with the winsome witch, did you?’

‘Charming girl,’ said Paul.

‘Ugh,’ said Lulu.

‘Get your hair styled,’ said Paul, and went to borrow or purloin a spare chair from somewhere.

One day, thought Lulu, I really will bash a hole in his head.

Friday, the last full day in Cornwall for the families. They spent it on Daymer beach, the favourite playground for many holidaymakers in this part of North Cornwall. Paula and Phoebe took the twins and their nets to look for shrimps in the pools among the rocks. Sammy and Susie went strolling over the expansive sands. Polly and Boots sat in the sun.

Jimmy, going for a swim, met Jenny going for a swim. She was following her group into the sea, but she stopped to say hello to Jimmy.

‘You look as if your holiday’s doing you good,’ she said.

‘Now you’ve made me worry about how I looked before,’ said Jimmy.

‘Oh, before, you looked like a well-dressed shirt salesman with an impertinent line of chat specially thought out to slay your lady customers,’ said Jenny. ‘It tickled me.’

‘I thought it put your nose in the air,’ said Jimmy.

Jenny’s laugh gurgled about.

‘That was my line of defence,’ she said. ‘Why do men chat up every girl they meet?’

‘Well, they hope that one day one girl will fall for it,’ said Jimmy.

‘You’ve got a wicked tongue,’ said Jenny. ‘You’ve got lovely hair,’ said Jimmy. Her dark hair was full of springy clusters, dry from salt, sun and sea breezes.

‘Well, thanks, Jimmy.’

‘My pleasure.’

‘When does your holiday end?’

‘We’re going home tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow?’ Jenny looked surprised. ‘But we’ve got another week. We always have three weeks and a bit. The bit takes care of two days of travel here and back.’

‘Do the eight of you travel in your own bus?’

‘No, four in one car, four in another. Tomorrow, you said?’

‘Yes,’ said Jimmy, ‘tomorrow we’re homeward bound.’

‘Oh, well,’ said Jenny. ‘Listen, your uncle, who is he?’

‘My uncle,’ said Jimmy.

‘Fathead,’ said Jenny. ‘No, is he someone distinguished and important? Only Chloe’s got a terrible crush on him.’

‘Barmy,’ said Jimmy. ‘She only saw him for about five seconds.’

‘In those five seconds, Chloe went ga-ga,’ said Jenny.

‘Ga-ga about what she thinks is distinguished importance?’ said Jimmy.

‘No, we all thought he looked impressive,’ said Jenny.

‘Well, tell Chloe he’s old enough to be her grandfather,’ said Jimmy.

‘He doesn’t look it,’ said Jenny, her tightly fitting blue swimsuit streamlining her ups and downs. ‘And it won’t make any difference to Chloe. She’s cross-eyed and wandering.’

‘She’s rollicking about in the water right now,’ said Jimmy.

‘Oh, she’s a fighter,’ said Jenny. ‘What’s your uncle’s name?’

‘Boots.’

‘Boots? Boots? That’s absurd.’

‘It’s a nickname pinned on him as an infant,’ said Jimmy, ‘and it’s stuck ever since. He doesn’t mind.’

‘What’s his real name?’

‘Robert Adams.’

‘I’ll tell Chloe,’ said Jenny, ‘I think she’d like to send him a Valentine card.’

‘I advise against that,’ said Jimmy, ‘or his wife, my Aunt Polly, will track her down and chuck her off the top of Tower Bridge.’

Jenny rippled with laughter.

‘Jimmy, you’re a wag,’ she said.

A head popped up high out of the sea and a shout issued forth.

‘Hey, come on, Jenny!’

‘That’s Barry,’ said Jimmy.

‘That’s Barry,’ echoed Jenny. ‘Well, I don’t suppose we’ll see each other again, unless you’ll be down here next year. Be good. Lots of luck. Bye, now.’

‘Send me a Valentine card,’ said Jimmy.

She laughed again, and away she went to splash through the shallows.

Jimmy looked up at the blue heavens.

‘Thanks very much,’ he said, ‘you’ve been a great help, I don’t think.’

Susie, far away on the other side of Brea Hill, was enjoying her stroll with Sammy.

‘By the way,’ she said, ‘something’s happening to our Jimmy.’

‘He’s shaving?’ said Sammy.

‘He’s been shaving for a year, you goof,’ said Susie.

‘Well, perhaps I meant is he growing a beard?’ said Sammy. ‘Tell him not to, or his grandma will come after him with her scissors. You know what she thinks about bearded men. They’re either bandits or Bolsheviks. Might I ask, incidental like, where you get goof from?’

‘From our American daughter-in-law Patsy,’ said Susie.

‘Americans use a funny kind of language,’ said Sammy.

‘Not as funny as our kind, like corblimey, how’s your father,’ said Susie. ‘Sammy love, I think Jimmy’s been struck by lightning.’

‘Don’t I know it,’ said Sammy, ‘he walked into
a door at the cottage yesterday. That’s serious.’

‘It’s that girl we’ve seen him talking to,’ said Susie, ‘the one he played golf with.’

‘Looks a bit of all right to me,’ said Sammy.

‘You don’t say a bit of all right about a girl that makes our Jimmy walk into doors,’ said Susie.

‘How can we help?’ asked Sammy, his sandals and Susie’s in his hands, their bare feet treading wet sand.

‘If that means you’re thinking of interfering, Sammy Adams, think again,’ said Susie. ‘Let Jimmy work things out for himself.’

‘Might I point out, Mrs Adams, that I was only going to suggest inviting her to Sunday tea?’ said Sammy.

‘That’s up to Jimmy,’ said Susie.

‘I feel for him,’ said Sammy. ‘I mean, I had a hard time meself with you, didn’t I.’

‘That’s a laugh,’ said Susie, ‘you spent years backing off and driving me dotty. Still, you came to your senses in the end. Just as well, or I’d have finished you off with my dad’s chopper.’

‘Well, I’m glad you didn’t, Susie, or me business would’ve died an early death, and the profits likewise. Susie, what d’you think, has it been a good marriage, me and you?’

‘Sammy love, a lot better than if it had been me and someone else.’

‘I’ll buy you a fur coat come winter,’ said Sammy.

‘I don’t want a fur coat,’ said Susie. ‘I’ve got everything I ever needed. Except something that would make this day last for ever.’

Jenny knocked on the door of a cottage in Daymer Lane. A woman in an apron answered.

‘Oh, good morning,’ said Jenny, ‘I’m looking for Jimmy Adams.’

‘Oh, he went off with the families early on,’ said the woman. ‘I’m Mrs Boddy, I do the clearing up and cleaning for them on the day they go, like last year, m’dear. They always leave early.’

‘Blow that,’ said Jenny.

It was a long drive home for the families. The twins tumbled into bed soon after arrival. Paula and Phoebe tucked down soon after nine, Jimmy at ten. Sammy and Susie retired five minutes later. Boots and Polly sat up for a while, sharing an old-fashioned pot of night-time tea, something Polly would have eschewed in her pre-marriage days.

They flopped when they were eventually in bed.

Boots had a dream, the same one. Belsen. Corpses, faces, eyes. Faces. One face out of many. It woke him up.

‘Jesus Christ,’ he whispered.

Polly stayed asleep.

The twins, refreshed, consumed a rattling good breakfast. With Flossie on holiday, Polly, not the world’s greatest or most enthusiastic cook, could at least produce happy-looking eggs and bacon, and
what Boots called classy toast. The large three-pound jar of marmalade was a present from Susie, who always made her own, from Seville oranges. She’d missed out during the war, but Sevilles were now being imported.

‘Daddy,’ said Gemma, ‘what we going to do today?’

‘Laze about,’ said Boots.

‘Well,’ said Gemma, ‘I don’t think much of that. Can’t we get some sand and make castles in the garden?’

‘Can’t we dig a hole and make a pond to swim in?’ said James. ‘I’m prepared,’ he said grandly, ‘to do my bit.’

‘And I’ve got my seaside spade,’ said Gemma. ‘Daddy,’ she said generously, ‘you could use that. I could just watch. I don’t mind just watching.’

‘Just watching?’ said James. ‘Well, can you believe that?’

‘Shall we dig a hole, Polly?’ asked Boots.

‘Such decisions, old bean, I cheerfully leave to you,’ said Polly. ‘I’ll cut some gladioli for the house.’

‘I’ll help Mummy,’ said Gemma.

‘Right, then,’ said Boots. ‘James can start digging the hole, and I’ll help him after I’ve attended to some of the letters that were waiting for us yesterday. We’ll fill the hole with water from the hose. If it runs away, we’ll use the hole to plant a flowering shrub. I’ll show you where you can start digging, young ’un.’

‘It’s got to be a big hole,’ said James.

‘So-so,’ said Boots.

Later, when James was digging and Gemma was watching, Boots had a word with Polly.

‘Polly, you remember the Nuremberg trials?’

‘Will I ever forget?’ said Polly. They had spent a day there.

‘You remember the film that included scenes at Belsen, with some of the camp guards in evidence?’

‘Once again, will I ever forget?’ said Polly.

‘When I was there in ’45, I looked into the faces of most of the guards. Women as well as men.’

‘You told me of that well before we went to the trials,’ said Polly. ‘What’s on your mind?’

Boots said most of the men and women guards avoided being looked in the eye, that all of them had suddenly been made aware of their infamy by the arrival of British troops. There was one man, however, an SS officer, who refused to accept that the extermination of Jews was any kind of crime. He’d been sent by Himmler to arrange for all surviving inmates to be finished off before any Allied troops turned up. He was too late, and that alone bothered him. He looked me in the eye, said Boots, without showing any signs of remorse whatever. All that has played on your mind since it happened, said Polly, but is there something new?

‘There’s the fact that one of the women guards, a handsome bitch, was the only guard to meet my eye,’ said Boots. ‘I saw no remorse, no guilt, just contempt for what I represented, an enemy of her ideology, the ideology of Himmler.’

‘Did you hang her?’ asked Polly.

‘I made her and all the other guards, and Himmler’s unrepentant messenger, a Major Kirsten, bury the mounds of dead and clean up the filth of the camp before being taken to prison and to Nuremberg,’ said Boots. ‘Now, Polly, how did that one woman escape Nuremberg?’

‘Did she escape?’ said Polly. ‘If so, how do you know she did?’

‘She’s here,’ said Boots.

‘Here?’ said Polly.

‘In London,’ said Boots.

‘You’re losing me, old soldier,’ said Polly.

‘I’ll help you catch up with me,’ said Boots. ‘I saw her.’

Polly stared at him, at his deep grey eyes, the left one as clear as the right, yet almost blind. Years and years ago, during the first battle of the Somme in 1916, the searing flash of an exploding German grenade had blinded him. An operation in 1920 had returned full sight to his right eye. His left had remained permanently damaged, but only the slightly lazy action of the lid betrayed that. Polly kept a subconsciously caring watch on his sound eye.

‘Boots, you saw her?’

‘Yes, and of all places, in the East Street market of Walworth on the day Sammy and I took his girls and the twins there. The twins and the girls were with me at old Ma Earnshaw’s stall, and this woman was a little way off. She’d changed, of course, she looked like a nicely dressed housewife. I gave her only a brief glance, and although her features
didn’t clearly register, I had a faint idea there was something familiar about her. It didn’t stay with me. We moved on and she took her place at the stall. The kids saw her again later on, and pointed her out to me. Again, nothing important registered, not until I had that dream again last night. Her face and her eyes – she had the blue eyes that Himmler regarded as true Aryan – surged into the dream. I woke up, and I knew then that I’d seen her that day in the market.’

‘Ye gods,’ said Polly, ‘so what are you going to do?’

‘Find her,’ said Boots. ‘I owe it to the poor murdered inmates of Belsen.’