V for Violet (10 page)

‘Everybody was enlisting at the beginning of the war. It was the thing to do. And Dad encouraged me. He wanted his son to do ‘the right thing’. We all thought it was so exciting at first. I decided to volunteer for the RAF. I liked the idea of working with planes. And I knew some stuff about engineering, with the welding and all that. I had to go to Sheffield to enrol. First time I’d been out of London. Made me think that I wouldn’t mind travelling. I was glad the war had come so that I had the chance to see some of the world.

‘I didn’t have a clue, Violet. I didn’t have a clue.’ He grinds his cigarette out on the ground and immediately lights another one.

‘I went somewhere in Wales for my training. I can’t remember where now. It’s all a bit of a blur. But we had lessons in a classroom on how to operate a plane. We all thought we were so clever. I made some good friends there. I thought I’d know them for ever. But they were all killed. One after the other.’

Our coffee goes cold as Joseph talks. He’s like a gushing tap; the words just pour out of him.

‘It was all like a game at first,’ he says. ‘Like when I was a kid, playing with tin soldiers. None of it was real. But the last time I came back home, just before I had to go and join my squadron, was when it all became real. The bombing had started, you see. The night-time raids. People were dying. Homes were being destroyed. It wasn’t a game any more. And I realised I didn’t want to go away to fight. I wanted to stay at home. I wished I hadn’t signed up. But I had no choice then. And Dad was so proud of me.

‘And do you know what I thought? I thought how unfair it all was. Why were there some fellas that were allowed to stay behind and I wasn’t? All those lucky enough to be in reserved occupations. The miners, the teachers, the railway men, the dockers and the farmers. I was so envious of them all, and I was terrified. But I couldn’t show it. I had to be a brave young man.’ He sucks deeply on his cigarette and blows the smoke furiously into the air.

‘I think most of us knew we were pretending to be brave, but nobody could say anything. On the train on the way to the barracks there were some fellas that were sick. They laughed it off and said it must have been all the drink they’d had the evening before to celebrate their last night of freedom. But I knew it wasn’t. I knew it was the terror that they couldn’t stomach. Because I’d been sick myself, only I’d done it quietly, on the station platform while we were waiting for the train. I’d bent down to pretend to tie my boot laces and I’d vomited quickly and silently down onto the tracks.

‘The fear never went away. Never. It was like having a rat gnawing away at your insides, day in and day out. I kept thinking of all the things I could have done if I’d been allowed to stay at home. I could have driven ambulances, I could have worked in an ammunition factory, I could have become a teacher or I could have gone to Kent and grown vegetables to help the war effort. But instead, I was just another young body; a pig on its way to the slaughterhouse.

‘You can’t imagine what it was like, Violet. It was a nightmare. A never-ending nightmare that I couldn’t wake up from. But then it got worse. The first time I flew in a plane I thought my insides would fall out. Every time we were called to a briefing and sent out on a bombing raid, I thought it would be my last day on Earth. Every few days someone wouldn’t make it back. There would be another empty chair in the mess hall.

‘The last bombing raid we did, I knew it was going to be a big one because we were told there was two thousand gallons of fuel in the plane. That meant about ten hours of flying. We were ordered to fly to northern France, but during the afternoon, not at night when we usually flew. The pilot that day was a Canadian fella called Sidney Wagg. I knew he had a wife and a small baby at home because he carried their photograph everywhere, and whenever he flew he stuck the photograph on the control panel. I can still see their faces. She was a pretty girl and the baby had the chubbiest cheeks you can imagine.

‘Before we left, we were given our wakey-wakey pills to keep us alert and the padre said his usual prayer – may you live long, die happy and be in heaven for ten days before the Devil knows you’re there.

‘I didn’t want to die happy. I didn’t want to die at all.

‘But we flew to France and as we manoeuvred into line to start the bombing, I knew it was going to be the last time I ever viewed the world from the skies, unless I ended up in heaven. I don’t know if it was the wakey-wakey pills having a more than usual strange effect on my mind, but instead of the job in hand, I couldn’t help focusing on odd little details.

‘There was a mole on the back of Sidney Wagg’s neck that I’d never noticed before. It had a single black hair growing from its centre. His face was covered in a sheen of sweat, and even though he must have shaved that morning, I could already see a hint of his five o’clock shadow. And I couldn’t stop looking at the photograph of his wife and baby. The collar of his wife’s blouse had roses embroidered on it. I realised I didn’t even know their names. And I didn’t know if the baby was a boy or a girl.

‘Then the bomb hit us. It came from above and knocked our wing off. I’d always imagined that moment and how terrified I’d be. But it wasn’t like that. I was calm. Calmer than I’d been for months. I shouted at Sidney to bail out, but he wouldn’t. He kept yelling that he could control it, that he could land the thing. But I didn’t want to waste any time, so I ran to the escape hatch and bailed out. And then I was falling; even with the parachute the ground was coming up faster than I could have imagined. I kept hoping Sidney would follow me out, but just before I hit the ground there was a terrific noise and the plane was hit by enemy fire. I kept thinking how they’d all be together now; Sidney and his wife and their baby. But then I remembered that it was only a photograph and that it was only Sidney that had died.

‘I was in a bad way when I hit the ground. My parachute was in tatters. And my arm was broken. It didn’t hurt then, but I knew it was broken because a bone had ripped a hole in my shirt. But I knew I had to move quickly, before the enemy came looking for me. I wandered into a nearby wood. It was like I was sleepwalking. My body was doing all the work, not my head. I found a barn and I slept and slept and slept. When I woke up there was a young girl looking down at me. I thought I had died and gone to heaven and she was an angel. She went away, but came back later with a man and a woman and they made me take off my uniform and change into some scruffy work trousers and an old shirt. They took me to a safe house and wrapped my arm in bandages and gave me cheese and bread and wine. It was the most delicious meal I had ever had.

‘A few days later I got moved to another place; a remote farmhouse in a valley. It was a special place, Violet, and they were special people. They worked for the Resistance and they kept me safe. They looked after me. They reset the bones in my arm and gave me medicine to kill any infection. They fed me and let me rest. And it really was like being in heaven. The war seemed so far away, like it belonged in someone else’s life. Like it had all been some horrible nightmare.

‘I should have left. I know I should. I should have been smuggled out of France and back to England to report for duty, but I kept finding excuses not to leave. My arm needed more time to heal. I wasn’t strong enough to make the journey yet. I made myself useful. I did what I could around the farm and they liked having me there.

‘Then, when I did grow stronger, I did more work on the farm and I was good at it. Nobody came looking for me and as time went on it got so that I couldn’t have gone back even if I had wanted to. There would have been too many questions. I would have been court martialled, thrown into prison – or worse. Then the war ended and that was that. The decision was made for me. It was too late. I really couldn’t come back. And if you want to know the truth, Violet, I didn’t want to come back. I’d got a new life that I loved. New people that I loved. And I knew that Dad would never forgive me for what I’d done.’

He swallows a mouthful of cold coffee and pulls a face. ‘I deserted the army, Violet. I know it was wrong, but I don’t care. I never believed in the war and at least I’m alive and I’ve had a life.’

‘That’s where you’ve been all these years then?’ I said. ‘At that farmhouse?’

He nods.

‘So why have you come back now then, if it was all so wonderful?’

He doesn’t answer straight away. Then he says, ‘Everyone has to come home at some point, Violet.’

‘But why now? How could you have let Mum and Dad think you were dead for seventeen years! Didn’t you care about that?’ If blood could really boil, mine would be bubbling furiously now.

‘Of course I cared.’ He shrugs. ‘But I suppose I just thought everyone would be getting on with their lives and would have forgotten about me.’

There’s something he’s not telling me. I can tell by the way his eyes keep slipping away from my challenging stare. ‘But I still don’t understand. Why now? Why did you come home now?’

‘Sometimes,’ he says, ‘there’s no answer to a question. No matter how many times you ask it.’ He leans towards me and tries to take my hands. I pull them away and shove them out of reach under the table. He looks embarrassed for a second but then he takes a deep breath. ‘Listen, Violet,’ he says. ‘I’m home now. I’ve told you my story. Mum’s forgiven me. Norma’s forgiven me. Dad hasn’t yet, but he will. And I’d just like the chance to get to know you. Please. I’ll be the best big brother a girl could wish for!’

His attempt at a joke makes me want to spit blood. I clench my fists under the table. ‘I’ve never had a big brother,’ I say. ‘Not for seventeen years. And I don’t need one now.’ I push my chair back and stand up to leave. ‘Thanks for the coffee,’ I say through gritted teeth. Then I zip up my leather jacket and run for the next bus home.

It’s late now. It must be gone midnight. I’ve been in bed for ages, but I can’t sleep. I didn’t tell Mum that I’d seen Joseph. I didn’t want the endless questions that I knew she’d ask or to see a spark of hope in her eyes. And I know Dad wouldn’t have cared less anyway. Besides, he was too busy yelling at me.

‘Wipe that bloody muck off your face. You’re not serving customers looking like that.’ And, ‘What the hell is that thing you’re wearing? Christ, Violet, who the hell do you think you are? You’re asking for trouble looking like that!’

I didn’t bother to argue with him. Dad’ll never understand. Not in a million years. I don’t care what he thinks anyway. The only opinion that matters is Beau’s. And he’ll love my new leather jacket. I know he will.

It’s hanging up on the outside of my wardrobe now, taunting me. It’s shining in a dazzle of moonlight. I didn’t get to wear it again tonight because Beau didn’t come. All evening I expected him to walk through the shop door and ask for his six of chips. Every time the door jangled I looked up with a smile ready on my face. But he never came. And now I feel stupid for thinking he would. Perhaps he thinks he made a mistake, taking me out on his motorcycle that night. Perhaps he thought I was another girl; a fun girl, a dangerous girl, a girl who’s up for a laugh.

I want to shout at him. If only he’d bothered to come tonight he would have seen that I
am
that girl now. I look at my leather jacket again and I remember the girl on Chelsea Bridge. The one who asked my name. There’s a tightening in my stomach as I try not to imagine that it’s her draping herself all over Beau tonight.

It’s Thursday. Not a good day. It was only last Saturday that Joanne Thomas’s body was discovered and now another girl has been found raped and murdered. Her body dumped
outside
the pump house this time. Her name was Pamela Bennett. She was sixteen. She was new to the area, so I didn’t know her. I’m glad about that. It’s easier to pretend it’s not real if something terrible happens to a stranger.

Now everyone’s behaving oddly. Hardly anyone’s stopping to chat on the streets any more, there’s no kids playing outside and there’s a horrible silence everywhere. It’s like a great machine has come to Battersea and sucked away all the smiles and laughter and replaced them with fear and suspicion.

Dad’s been banging on, that it’s all the fault of this new pill you can get now that stops you from getting pregnant. He reckons it’ll turn all women into fast pieces. But as usual, he’s got it all wrong. Only married women can get this pill and Pamela Bennett wasn’t married. But even if she was taking a pill that stops you getting pregnant, she should still have been allowed to say no to a fella. Dad’s told me he doesn’t want to see me all dolled up again either. ‘There’s trouble enough already,’ he said, ‘without you going around asking for it.’

And if all that wasn’t bad enough, Joseph has moved back home.

He’s run out of money for his lodgings and until he finds some work, Mum says he can have his old room back. Dad’s not happy of course, in fact he’s furious, but Mum’s not having any of it. ‘He’s my son,
our son
,’ she keeps saying to him. ‘If you don’t like it, Frank, then
you
move out.’

Dad has shouted himself hoarse, but Mum won’t budge. There’s a fierce light in her eyes these days and I think that Dad knows, deep down, that he can’t come between a mother and her child. Especially a child who’s risen from the dead.

You’d think the Queen was here to stay, the way Mum’s been behaving. She’s scrubbed the whole place from top to bottom. She’s beaten the rugs, washed the nets, polished the furniture and even put a vase of carnations on the kitchen table.

I was in my bedroom when Joseph first arrived. I heard Mum squealing with excitement and Dad slamming out of the house. I heard Mum bringing Joseph up to his room and her telling him, ‘There’s a clean towel on your bed, love. Have a minute to unpack and settle in, then come downstairs and I’ll put the kettle on.’

She’s never put a clean towel on my bed.

He was in his room for ages. I heard the sound of his wardrobe door opening and closing and the scrape of drawers. Then, just silence. For the longest time. What was he doing? Was he thinking? Was he sleeping? Was he looking at his childhood toy soldiers and wondering why they were still there on the windowsill? Then Mum called up the stairs, ‘The kettle’s on, love.’ And I heard him sniff and blow his nose and then I realised he’d been crying. Why would a grown man be crying in his bedroom? What is he hiding from us? Why won’t he tell us the real reason he’s come home? He’s not telling the whole truth. I just know it.

I try to stay in my room for as long as I can. I want Dad to know I’m on his side. I’m not going to forgive Joseph for being a deserter either. I can hear them all chattering downstairs; Mum, Joseph, Norma and Raymond. Norma’s taken Mum’s side of course and she keeps swearing. She keeps calling Dad a hard-hearted bastard and if he doesn’t see sense soon, then he’s going to lose her as a daughter. It doesn’t suit Norma to swear. It’s like she’s got up in the morning and squeezed into someone else’s dress.

They’re all laughing. It sounds all wrong. Like they’re having a party when there’s nothing to celebrate. I pace up and down my room. I can’t stay up here for ever and I know Mum’s cooked a roast. The smell of pork crackling is drifting up the stairs, making my mouth water. I don’t have to talk to Joseph, I suppose. I only have to eat.

As I pass his room, I notice that the door is ajar. I push it with my foot until it swings open. It doesn’t look any different. The tin soldiers are still on the windowsill and as I step inside, I can see that the broken piece of mirror is still propped up on the chest of drawers. The only signs that Joseph has moved back in are the fluffy towel on the end of the bed, the empty duffle bag on the floor … and a bundle of letters on his pillow.

I edge towards the bed and pick the bundle up. I can still hear them all laughing downstairs, like a pack of hyenas – a cackle of hyenas – so I feel safe for a moment. The letters are held together by an elastic band and there are dozens of them. I pull one out and peer at the envelope. It’s edged in blue and red stripes with an ink stamp at the top that says
Par Avion
. The handwriting is all loose and loopy but I can just make out,
Joseph White, Flat 4, 241, Fulham Palace Road, London.
It must be where he was lodging. I pull the letter out and open it up. The paper is tissue thin and smells of something sweet and flowery. The same loopy handwriting, but I can’t make head nor tail of it. It’s all in bloody French.
Cher Joseph,
it begins.
Dear Joseph
– I know that much. But the rest of it is just wriggles and squiggles of pale blue ink. I slide my eyes to the bottom of the page. It is signed with a big loopy
A.

Letters in French. French letters. They’re not what Jackie was talking about. I know that much. These wouldn’t stop a girl from getting pregnant.

I wish there was something to tell me who
A
is. I run my fingers through the rest of the bundle to see if I can feel the tell-tale bulge of a photograph or something. It’s hard to tell though – I’d have to open more of the letters and Mum’s shouting up at me now, to come down and behave like a reasonable human being.

I carefully fold up the letter and put it back in its envelope. I think about the ring on Joseph’s finger and the way he twisted it round and around. He said he’d found new people to love. But there must have been someone in particular. A beautiful French girl, probably, with a head of dark hair and piercing black eyes. I bet these letters are from her. I flick through the rest of the envelopes. There are a few that look different and when I check the postmarks I see that these ones were posted from London. But it’s the same handwriting. Whoever this
A
is, must have come to London too, then. Perhaps she followed him here?

There must be some answers in these letters. Some clues that might help solve the mystery of why Joseph decided to come home after all these years. Something that will shed light on whatever it is he’s hiding. It’ll be easy enough to find out. All I need is a French dictionary and a few hours in the library.

Norma looks at me disapprovingly as I sit next to her at the kitchen table. ‘Good of you to join us,’ she says.’ I flick the V sign at her and she flushes. ‘Just grow up, Violet!’ she hisses. ‘Just bloody grow up!’ Raymond nods at me. He doesn’t dare say hello or he’ll get a kick under the table from Norma. I don’t look at Joseph, and Mum’s too busy ogling him to notice me anyway, so I help myself to a plateful of roast spuds and some slices of pork.

‘Tell us some more French,’ Mum pleads. ‘Go on. You’ve got such a lovely accent.’

Joseph clears his throat. ‘Okay,’ he says. Strange words dance off his tongue, quickly and elegantly.

Norma claps her hands in delight. ‘Oh my goodness!’ she says. ‘It’s amazing. You sound proper French! What did you say?’

‘This meal is delicious. Thank you, Mum,’ he says.

‘Say something else. Say something else,’ chants Norma.

Joseph thinks for a moment, then more words fly from his mouth, like dozens of dancing butterflies. ‘That means, it’s good to be home,’ he says.

I nearly choke on a potato. What a creep! Showing off, all pleased with himself. And Mum and Norma gazing at him like he’s the best thing since sliced bread.

‘So, Joseph,’ I say slowly. He looks startled that I’ve actually spoken to him.

He turns to me and raises his eyebrows.

‘Tell us more about France. Who did you live with? What were their names?’

He picks up his cup and takes a sip of tea. ‘Well … okay,’ he says.

I glimpse the hint of a frown crossing his forehead. But then it’s gone and he gathers up his face to concentrate on my question. He’s had a shave and a tidy up of his hair since I last saw him. He’s got Dad’s thin-lipped mouth and bum-chin. When Mum’s in a good mood she calls Dad’s chin his Cary Grant chin; she calls him her very own Hollywood movie star. Trust Joseph to inherit that bit.

‘They were called Armand,’ he’s saying. ‘The family I lived with.’ He nods towards Mum. ‘Mum and Norma know all this already.’ He looks back at me. ‘It was the grandfather’s farm, Eric – Monsieur Armand. He was like an ox. Still working all hours, from dawn till dusk, even in his seventies.’ He pauses for a moment to take another sip of tea. ‘Then there were Eric’s sons, Alain and Leon, and Leon’s wife Arabella and their three children, Isabelle, Bruno and Eleta.’

‘What were they like?’ I ask.

He shrugs. ‘They were good people.
Very
good people. They took me in, didn’t they?’

‘They must have been wonderful,’ I say. I spit each word out like they’re acid drops. ‘You obviously preferred them to us.’

Joseph holds his hands up in surrender. ‘It wasn’t like that, Violet.’

Mum gives me a warning look.

I ignore her. ‘Well, what
was
it like, then? Tell me that, Joseph. What was it like? So bloody wonderful that you couldn’t be bothered to let your own family know you were still alive?’

‘Violet!’ Mum scrapes her chair back, like she’s about to stand up and throw me out of the kitchen.

‘It’s okay, Mum,’ says Joseph. He reaches across the table and squeezes her hand. Then he turns to me and sighs. He looks a hundred years old. ‘It’s hard to explain, Violet. I don’t expect you to understand.’ He lets go of Mum’s hand. ‘I don’t expect any of you to understand. The war … the war … it did things to people. Terrible things.’

‘More terrible than deserting your own family?’

‘Violet!’ Mum’s voice flies across the table. ‘Just stop it! Enough is enough!’ But she bites the corner of her lip and it’s obvious that she’d like to know the answer to my question as much as I do. She stands up and begins to clear the plates, bashing them together so that gravy and leftover potato shoot from the edges. ‘Right, everyone,’ she says, through gritted teeth, ‘who’s for apple pie and custard?’

Norma glares at me fiercely, with her ‘I wish you’d never been born’ face. Raymond just keeps to himself and quickly spears his last potato before Mum whips his plate away.

‘Violet …’ Joseph leans towards me with a pleading look on his face, like I’m five years old and he’s trying to get me to eat my greens. But I don’t get to hear what he’s going to say because there’s a knock at the kitchen door, a loud ‘Coo-ee!’ and Jackie comes breezing into the kitchen.

‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘I didn’t know you were having your tea. Just popped round to have a word with Violet, if that’s okay?’

‘Yes … yes, Jackie.’ Mum seems relieved by the interruption. ‘Come on in,’ she says. ‘Don’t mind us. Would you like some apple pie?’

‘No thanks, Mrs White,’ says Jackie. She smooths her hands down her slim hips. ‘Watching me figure.’ She looks around the room. ‘Hi Norma,’ she says. ‘Hi Raymond.’ She nods at me. ‘All right, Violet …’ She stares at Joseph and leaves her sentence unfinished with a great big Joseph-shaped question mark right at the end.

It’s Mum who eventually speaks. Her bosom swells up at least two bra sizes as she puts her hand on Joseph’s shoulder. ‘Now, Jackie, you know we had a son called Joseph?’ Jackie nods. ‘Who we thought for all these years had been killed in the war?’ Jackie nods again. ‘Well …’ says Mum, taking a deep breath, ‘we didn’t want to tell anyone yet, not until he’d settled down a bit, but he … he wasn’t killed. He wasn’t killed at all! This is Joseph. This is our Joseph. Back home with us.’ She bends down and kisses Joseph hard on the top of his head.

Jackie makes a show of being shocked. She clamps her hand over her mouth and gasps. She’s a good actress, I’ll give her that. And a nosey cow. She couldn’t wait, could she? She had to come and see the prodigal son for herself. And use me as her excuse.

‘Pleased to meet you, Joseph,’ she says. She holds out her hand to him and I swear she almost bobs a curtsey.

‘Nice to meet you too, Jackie,’ says Joseph, as he takes her hand. His eyes sweep up and down her. ‘So, you’re a friend of Violet’s, are you?’

‘Yeah,’ says Jackie. ‘Known each other all our lives, haven’t we, Vi?’ She edges towards Dad’s empty chair, her eyes fixed on Joseph. ‘So …’ she says. ‘This is just amazing …’ She wouldn’t dare, would she? She wouldn’t dare sit down and have a conversation with him? Of course she would. This is Jackie we’re talking about. And she’s already forgotten about me, and what she supposedly came here for.

‘So, what did you want?’ I say quickly, before she changes her mind about the apple pie and takes up residence in Dad’s chair. ‘You said you wanted a word with me?’ I get up from the table and motion for her to follow. ‘Come on,’ I say. ‘We can go to my room.’

‘Oh. Right. Yeah … sure,’ says Jackie. She makes a face at Joseph, as if to say sorry. Then she turns to me. ‘Actually,’ she says. ‘It was only to remind you about the dance tomorrow night. Starts at seven at the Roxy. If you can make it?’

I shrug. ‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘I’m meant to be working.’

‘Oh, you’ll let her have the night off, won’t you, Mrs W?’ Jackie smiles her best smile. ‘It won’t be the same without Violet.’

Norma raises her eyebrows. ‘A dance? Violet? Well, I suppose it had to happen one day.’

‘But who’s going to help in the shop?’ says Mum. ‘It’s Friday. We’ll be run off our feet.’

Joseph coughs. ‘Excuse me!’ he says. ‘Have you forgotten that I was once the best fish batterer this side of the Thames? Let Violet have her night off. I’ll help in the shop.’

Mum gives me a look that says, see how nice he is to you, even though you’re being a horrible bitch. ‘Well, there you go, Violet,’ she says. ‘Your brother has given you the night off.’