Walter was standing in the hallway when they arrived. The telephone pressed to his ear, saying ‘I see’ over and over.
Kitty waited till he’d finished.
‘News, dad?’
‘Aye. That mate o’ mine at the Admiralty. Those three blokes the Navy picked up. A midshipman, a signalman and an able seaman. No leading seamen.’
For a moment Cal was not there. They could neither of them see him or acknowledge him. Then Kitty said ‘That’s it then. We know now, don’t we.’
Walter disappeared into the parlour to shatter his wife’s last hope. Kitty led Cal down the stairs to the basement, pulling on his hand like a child dragging a reluctant father to the shops.
Vera was at the range, swapping pans around like a juggler. Grimfaced, stripped of make-up, sleeves up and tearless. Losing herself in her own efficiency. Miss Greenlees hovered with the kettle until Vera swore at her and snatched it away.
‘I was only going to make a cup of tea. I’m sure Captain Cormack would like a nice cup of tea.’
‘He’d love a nice cup of tea,’ said Kitty. ‘We both would.’
‘Jesus Christ,’ said Vera. ‘How much bleedin’ tea do you have to drink to bring back the dead?’
She slammed the kettle onto the hob. Miss Greenlees fled in tears. Cal wished he could follow her.
‘Vera, for God’s sake . . .’ Kitty began.
‘Don’t Vera me. She’s been wittering on at me all day. You sloped off, you sly tart. You’ve had a break from her. You’ve had a break from all of ‘em. Don’t start on me!’
‘You sloped off all the way to Claridge’s. You been up West. If that ain’t slopin’ off I don’t know what is. You left me ‘ere on me jack jones to get a meal for us all. Kitty, you’re me sister, me own flesh and blood, and you’re about as much use as a fart in a colander.’
Walter appeared in the doorway.
‘Will you two shut up. This is meant to be a house in mournin’ – or had neither of you noticed?’
The women turned their backs on him. Walter’s attention turned to Cal.
‘The missis’d like a word, Calvin. If you’ve a moment.’
Cal had not anticipated this. He had come for Kitty. He’d sink back into the wallpaper. No one would notice him. No one would ask anything of him.
‘I’ve all the time in the world, Walter. But I’ve no idea what I can possibly say.’
‘You don’t have to say anythin’ lad. Let our Edna do the talking. You’re a servin’ soldier, after all. That’s what matters to our Edna. Just to be able to talk to another man in uniform. Someone as knows what it’s like.’
Cal followed, wondering what on earth he could do for Edna Stilton to fulfil the notion Walter had dreamt up. He’d never been in the Navy – he wasn’t actually in uniform – as in better days Stilton was wont to remind him – his experience of combat was clandestine, grubby compared to the heroics of the Royal Navy. No one would ever boast of what he and Stilton had got up to last night. For himself, he wasn’t sure he’d ever tell anyone.
Edna Stilton was leafing through a photograph album. Stilton eased him gently forward with a hand between the shoulderblades. Then Cal heard the door close softly, looked around and found himself in a room he hadn’t seen last time. A formal room – Victorian in the weight of its furniture and the universal hues of brown and black. The ‘parlour’ – that was what Stilton had called it. It had the air of a room scarcely used. Like the ballroom in his grandfather’s house – the dustsheets came off once a year.
‘Mrs Stilton?’
She looked up. Sad and smiling at the same time.
‘Captain Cormack. It’s very good of you . . .’
‘Calvin, please . . .’
‘I was just looking at some snaps of my boys.’
Cal peered over. Black gummed corners sticking the snapshots down to a coarse grey paper, heavy as blotter. Two shorn preadolescent boys in swimming trunks, facing the camera with four rows of bright teeth. A castle made of sand.
‘That was Southend, 1923. The year they got nits and I had to shave their ‘eads.’
She turned a page, then another and another. Came to rest on the twins in uniform, a cigarette stuck to each lower lip, beer bottle in hand, one of them with his head back, roaring with laughter.
‘That was the year they enlisted. 1934.’
Cal pulled up a footstool and took the crick out of his back. He felt like a child next to Mrs Stilton, her bulk sedate in the depths of an overstuffed armchair.
‘You’re a reg’lar aren’t you, Calvin? Not like Maurice. Maurice is only in for the duration.’
‘Yes. I’ve served eleven years if you count West Point.’
‘What’s that? Is that like Aldershot?’
‘More like Sandhurst, I guess.’
She nodded at this, turned another page. A formal shot. The boys in dress uniform standing to attention.
‘The vicar was round.’
‘Yes, I heard.’
‘Reckons they was ‘eroes. Told me and Kitty they died a hero’s death.’
This was the moment Cal had dreaded. His own feet of clay. He had no idea what to say and less of what to be.
‘But they was reg’lar. “That’s the thing with reg’lars,” he said. “They lay down their lives for their king and their country.” ‘
She stared off into nothing for a few moments. Then she looked straight at Cal.
‘Was that why you joined up?’
And he could see no moral or merit in lying to her.
‘No, Mrs Stilton. I’m no hero. I joined up to escape the ties of family. The obligation to go to the right university after the right school, and to cheat the career my folks had mapped out for me. It was a selfish act on my part. I had no thoughts of heroism. I had hoped to get through it all without ever coming face to face with an enemy. It was always meant to be something temporary. I saw myself doing something else within a few years. I’d no idea what, but I never imagined I’d still be a soldier on the eve of a war. Not everyone’s a hero. Not everyone can be like your boys.’
‘Heroes?’
‘We’re not all cut out for it. Your boys were . . . special.’
‘An’ you didn’t want to be a hero?’
‘Never entered my mind.’
‘I’m pleased to hear you say that. I’d much sooner remember them the way they were – a pair of scallywags looking out for the next fag and the next likely girl. If I thought they was really heroes I’d never have understood ‘em. They joined up to get off the bloody dole queue. ‘Scuse my French.’
She closed the book flat on her lap.
‘Vicar always was a silly old sod. I remember during the General Strike him saying we’d all go to hell ‘cos we’d broken God’s law and it was God as allotted us our station in life. You hang on to your life, young Calvin. I don’t think I believe in dead heroes. Now – has no one offered you a cup of tea? There’s nothing like a nice cup of tea.’
Her arms were poised to push herself out of the chair when the door opened and, as if on cue, Stilton appeared with the tea tray.
‘There’s nothing like a nice cup of tea,’ he said, and Cal knew he was trapped for the duration of the English Tea Ceremony.