V for Violet (23 page)

The sun is warm and buttery. There are even fluffy story-book clouds in the sky. I’m glad. It makes the graveyard seem friendlier. Joseph pushes me along the path in my wheelchair. It’ll be a while before I can walk again. My left leg was broken in two places and my right leg suffered a compound fracture; that’s when your bone breaks through your skin. I also fractured my skull. But I’m healing nicely. The doctor warned me that I might become over-emotional at times and have problems with my memory. It’s called neuropsychological dysfunction. But I seem to be okay so far. I’m not having any trouble remembering my studies anyway. I start evening classes next week. I’m going to take my A levels. English, maths and biology. If I work hard, which I will, by the time I’m nineteen I can join the police force. Inspector Gordon says he’ll give me a recommendation. I can already imagine the photograph of myself on the mantelpiece, all dressed up smart in a silver buttoned uniform and peaked cap. Beau says he’s always had a thing about girls in uniform. Just as well, I reckon. (I haven’t told him yet. But one day I’m going to get into detective college and I won’t have to wear a uniform then.)

The churchyard is packed. I don’t think we’ll be able to get near the graveside. But Jackie won’t mind. We’ve got to stay at the back anyway. Keep out of sight a bit. Brenda won’t want to see me here. I don’t think she’ll ever forgive me. But that’s okay. I’ll never be able to forgive myself either.

Jackie would be thrilled that so many people have turned up for her. Joseph stops and puts the brakes on my chair. I’ve got a bunch of violets resting in my lap. I’ll put them on the grave later, when all the fuss has died down.

I put my hand up to my throat to touch the silver J that’s resting warmly against my skin. Detective Inspector Gordon brought it back to me yesterday, after they’d finished using it as evidence against Raymond. Not that it was the only piece of evidence. They found a pair of Joanne Thomas’s earrings too. Raymond had given them to Norma as a present. And there was a purse belonging to Pamela Bennett and other things in a suitcase under his bed. The police don’t even know who they belonged to yet. God knows how many others there were.

Poor Norma. I was wrong about her being pregnant. She was just terrified of her husband. Six years married and he never had sex with her. And she was too proud and too ashamed to ever say anything. She always knew there was something not right. But she never, in her worst nightmare, dreamt it would be anything like this. She’s moved back home for the time being. Sharing my room. I cuddle her in the night when she starts to shake and cry. We all thought she was really going to lose it. Especially when they found the body of the fourth girl, and it was someone she worked with at Fine Fare. Well, she did lose it at first. But she’s surprised us all. It’s like she’s getting some of her fizz back. Little by little, day by day. She’s more angry than anything else. And I think that’s a good thing.

The churchyard’s gone quiet now. The vicar is starting the sermon. I look up at Joseph, standing next to me, and slip my hand into his. He never left my bedside when I was in hospital. We talked and talked and we haven’t stopped since. I told him things are changing. People don’t think like they used to any more. I told him it was about time he stopped hiding away. It was time he stopped being a coward. I told him that I know loads of brilliant stuff. And one of the things I know is that the world always needs a hero. Someone to change things. Someone to lead the way. Someone to help change people’s minds.

I’m meeting Alain tomorrow. And I can’t wait.

The vicar’s voice rises above our heads.

May the road rise to meet you,

May the wind be always at your back.

May the sun shine warm upon your face,

And the rains fall soft upon your fields.

Until we meet again.

Reproduced below is a letter that I stumbled upon when I was searching for stories from soldiers who had deserted during the Second World War, and before I really knew what this book was going to be about. It really touched me and I kept coming back to it again and again. It proved to be my inspiration to write about gay love in the 1960s, about the war, about desertion, about choices and about Joseph and Beau and Violet. It was written by an American Second World War veteran called Brian Keith to Dave, a fellow soldier he met and fell in love with while stationed in North Africa in 1943. It was reprinted in the September 1961 edition of
ONE
magazine – a groundbreaking pro-gay publication.

Dear Dave

This is in memory of an anniversary – the anniversary of October 27th, 1943, when I first heard you singing in North Africa. That song brings memories of the happiest times I’ve ever known. Memories of a GI show troop – curtains made from barrage balloons – spotlights made from cocoa cans – rehearsals that ran late into the evenings – and a handsome boy
with a wonderful tenor voice. Opening night at a theatre in Canastel – perhaps a bit too much muscatel, and someone who understood. Exciting days playing in the beautiful and stately Municipal Opera House in Oran – a misunderstanding – an understanding in the wings just before opening chorus.

Drinks at ‘Coq d’or’ – dinner at the Auberge – a ring and promise given. The show for 1st Armoured – muscatel, scotch, wine – someone who had to be carried from the truck and put to bed in his tent. A night of pouring rain and two very soaked GIs beneath a solitary tree on an African plain. A borrowed French convertible – a warm sulphur spring, the cool Mediterranean and a picnic of ‘rations’ and hot cokes. Two lieutenants who were smart enough to know the score but not smart enough to realise we wanted to be alone. A screwball piano player – competition – miserable days and lonely nights. The cold, windy night we crawled through the window of a GI theatre and fell asleep on a cot backstage, locked in each other’s arms. The shock when we awoke and realised that miraculously we hadn’t been discovered. A fast drive to a cliff above the sea – pictures taken and a stop amid the purple grapes and cool leaves of a vineyard.

The happiness when told we were going home – and the misery when we learned we would not be going together. Fond goodbyes on a secluded beach beneath the star-studded velvet of an African night, and the tears that would not be stopped as I stood atop the sea-wall and watched your convoy disappear over the horizon.

We vowed we’d be together again ‘back home,’ but fate knew better – you never got there. And so, Dave, I hope that wherever you are these memories are as precious to you as they are to me.

Goodnight. Sleep well, my love.

Brian Keith

Alison grew up in Liverpool, and now lives in a medieval house in Somerset with her three teenage children, her husband – a carpenter – an extremely naughty Jack Russell and a ghost cat. She has co-authored a number of non-fiction titles on subjects as diverse as growing old, mad monarchs, how to boil a flamingo, the history of America and the biography of a nineteenth-century baby killer. She has worked as a fashion designer, a production controller, a painter and decorator, a barmaid, and now owns and runs a vintage tea room. Alison has also published three previous YA novels with Hot Key Books –
The Quietness,
The Madness
and
The Beloved
. Follow Alison at
www.alisonrattle.com
or on Twitter:
@alisonrattle

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