1951
AS I HURRY DOWN THE stairs, I think more about Miss Munby’s proposition. I enjoy studying, and it seems a shame I won’t be able to do it anymore. Things will be different next year – those girls that are here will have chosen to be here. I’ll be able to see more of Lucy. But could I really stand another two years of chalk screeching on blackboards, uniforms and living at home with my mother and Reg? I’ve been feeling, more and more recently, that I need to get away from home.
I collect my bicycle and wheel it over to the front entrance.
‘There you are, Edie. I was about to go.’ Lucy is leaning against the gate.
‘Miss Munby kept me back,’ I explain. ‘She thinks I should stay on at school. Take the Higher. I mean, the new A levels.’
‘Well, it’s something to think about,’ Lucy replies.
‘My mother and Reg won’t like it.’
‘It isn’t their life, is it?’ Lucy flicks her hair over her shoulder. ‘You should stand up to them. Are we still going to the beach?’
‘Yes, definitely.’
It’s then I notice Judy. She’s standing close to the wall, in the shade of one of the trees, her arms crossed over her chest, staring at us. I pretend I haven’t noticed her but I can feel her eyes on me as I mount my bicycle. When I sneak another look, Judy turns and kicks the stump of the tree before walking off. Well, I’m not going to worry about Judy Simpson. She’s just jealous. She’s had Lucy to herself for long enough.
‘Come on then.’ Lucy hops onto her bicycle and is already cycling out of the gates. I have to pedal fast to keep up with her; she’s got a fancy new bicycle, whereas mine is a cranky old thing my father bought second-hand for me, an old butcher boy’s bicycle with crossbars instead of a basket. When I first started riding the bicycle, it was far too big for me and, if I rode it to school, my father would lift me onto it outside the house, where I set off, wobbling along the road, praying I wouldn’t have to stop at the level crossing. If I did, I’d have to ask the signalman to put me back on.
As we’re cycling along the High Street, I think more about staying on at school, getting my qualifications – I could go to college with Lucy. I picture us arriving together in London, sharing a dorm room, climbing through windows after the curfew, drinking cocoa by the gas fire in the evenings, laughing late into the night. I see my life, full of possibilities and previously unimagined experiences, opening up before me and, just for a moment, it’s a wonderful feeling. But then I remember my mother and Reg; I am sure they won’t let me stay on at school, or go away to college. My mother thinks I should be courting, and Reg has already stated his opinion: he doesn’t see why I’m still at school when I could be ‘out in the world’, bringing in a wage to ‘help out the family’. Going to college, getting out of Ludthorpe – it just won’t be possible, and I wish Miss Munby hadn’t put the idea in my head. ‘Get ideas above your station and you’ll only be disappointed,’ Reg said to me the other evening when I was doing my maths homework. ‘I don’t know why you bother with all that. You’ll only need to know how to add up the groceries, won’t you.’
We cycle through Ludthorpe, passing the green and the church, the malting factory – a mass of cranes and trucks, finally being rebuilt after it was hit in forty-two – then along the flat road to the sea, fields and hedgerows on either side of us. There is a haziness to the air and the breeze agitates the tall stalks of blonde wheat, causing husks to float across our path. Lucy cycles ahead of me, her back straight, her pale hair streaming out behind her. We cycle by the abattoir with its horrible smell. It’s a huge site consisting of several buildings and outhouses and tall, locked gates. I am glad when we pass it and the smell is lost on the breeze. The road widens and we ride side by side. Further along the coast, at Sandy Bay, are the amusements, the Beach View Café and, during the holidays, donkey rides and ice creams, but we are too old for such things; the novelty has worn off. When I was a child, the beach sounded almost mythical, something from a fairy tale. It was mostly prohibited, covered in barbed wire and landing traps. It wasn’t as bad as it was further south, there were no mines, but still, we never went to the coast. Perhaps that’s why my father was so keen to get in the water in forty-six. He’d missed swimming.
I always feel a sense of unease at the beach. It doesn’t feel right that the place my father died is the place people come to enjoy themselves. I didn’t want to tell Lucy this when she suggested it; I was happy she wanted me to go with her, and so I kept my feelings to myself.
The sea comes into view and I can now smell salt on the breeze. We glide past the long row of brightly coloured beach huts. Lucy points out her parents’ hut, striped red and white like a Christmas candy cane. We dismount and walk our bicycles down through the dunes. It’s much cooler here on account of the strong sea breeze. Lucy takes her sandals off and hooks them over her handlebars.
‘Aren’t you going to take your shoes off, Edie? The sand is lovely.’
‘Oh, no,’ I say. ‘I don’t like the feel of it.’
Lucy laughs. ‘You are funny.’
We find a spot in the dunes and sit on the blanket Lucy has brought with her. I finally remove my shoes and socks, taking care to keep my feet on the blanket. The beach is busy; clearly everyone else in Ludthorpe had the same idea as us. There are schoolgirls, groups of boys, mothers with toddlers. A few brave children run in and out of the grey surf, shrieking. A man and a small girl, father and daughter, are flying a red kite; it dips and dives in the wind. I try to avoid staring out at the sea as when I do, I can see my father’s head, bobbing amongst the waves. There and then not there, and all because of me. I shake my head. Things are changing for me, and I no longer need to dwell on the past. I’ve finally found a true friend.
‘Did you go away with Mr Wheaton then, to spend the night?’
Lucy closes her eyes and turns her face to the sun. ‘Max booked us in as Mr and Mrs Wheaton and we had supper brought to our room on a trolley. I drank wine. He held me all night . . .’ She opens her eyes and wraps her arms around her chest. ‘And we talked and talked. Max says he can talk to me in a way he can’t with anyone else. He witnessed dreadful things in the war, you know. He was one of the first on the scene – after the Americans, of course – at a concentration camp in Northern Germany. He has dreams: piles of decomposing bodies, human beings like living skeletons, their faces nothing but bone and eyes. Hands pawing at him, begging him for food, for medicine, when he doesn’t have enough. There is a woman who thrusts a baby into his arms. Take her, she tells him. Make her better. When Max looks down at the baby, it’s dead.’
For a moment, I feel sorry for Mr Wheaton, but then I remember that he’s our teacher, that he should know better than to have an affair with Lucy. There are no excuses, war or no war.
‘So it all went smoothly then?’ I press, wanting to know more, wondering about what it must have been like to spend the night with a man, with Mr Wheaton. I want to know everything, but Lucy hesitates and I can tell she’s holding back.
‘Oh, yes,’ she says, evasively. ‘The only tricky moment was when the ring I borrowed from my mother’s jewellery collection slipped off my finger as I was eating breakfast in the dining room and fell into my tinned tomato. An elderly woman saw and tutted.’
‘Where did you tell your parents you were?’
Lucy turns to me and smiles mischievously. ‘At your house.’
I take a deep breath. ‘You could have told me. What if someone had wanted you?’
She leans over and squeezes my arm. ‘I knew you’d cover for me.’
‘I’ve hardly seen you in school,’ I say, a little cross with her.
‘Well, you know . . .’ She stretches her legs out on the blanket. ‘I’ve been in the music room most lunchtimes. Max can see me from his classroom window then. He likes to know where I am.’
‘Likes to know where you are?’
Lucy smiles to herself as the wind wraps her hair around her face. ‘Max says he can’t help it that his feelings are so strong.’ She twists her necklace at her throat. ‘He also says it’s better for me to stay away from the girls. You know, from Judy and Ann and the others.’
From down on the beach a dog barks and I can hear children playing a game, shouting instructions to each other. I frown. I can’t see why Lucy should have to stay away from people for Mr Wheaton’s sake.
‘But why?’
Lucy digs her toes into the sand. ‘Well, he wants me to himself, that’s all. And he thinks the other girls are a bad influence.’ She shrugs. ‘He doesn’t want me to tell anyone about our relationship even if I trust them. He says they’d only try and split us up. I daren’t speak to any of the girls in school in case he’s watching. Although of course I’d never tell anyone. Well, apart from you, but Max doesn’t know I’m friends with you.’ She gives me a weak smile.
I return her smile but I can’t shake the anxious feeling that has settled in my stomach. No doubt Mr Wheaton wouldn’t want Lucy spending time with me either. What right has he to make decisions like that about Lucy? Telling her who she can and can’t speak to and wanting to know where she is all the time? I feel like echoing her own words back to her: It’s your life.
‘Max gave me this.’ She hands me a small bottle and I run my finger over the grooves of the stopper. Evening in Paris is printed on the gold label.
‘Did he buy it in Paris?’
Lucy giggles. ‘No. He bought it in London. He went to see the Festival of Britain. So lucky. Try some,’ she says, gesturing to the perfume bottle.
‘Oh, no.’ I attempt to give the bottle back to Lucy but she insists.
‘Go on.’
I spray a little onto my wrists.
‘Rub it behind your ears. Isn’t it dreamy?’
I inhale deeply. I smell like Lucy – bergamot, lilac, rose and jasmine. I smell of lust and passion and dark secrets. A shiver runs through me and I give her the bottle back, watching as she sprays some on herself. From her bag, she takes a Coty box with an orange and gold pattern. My mother would be envious, she’d love a Coty powder. Lucy lightly dabs the cream powder puff into the box. Using a small compact mirror, she expertly brushes the puff over her nose, cheekbones and forehead. ‘I look a perfect sight. It’s the wind.’
I bite my lip – Lucy always looks beautiful.
‘Let me do you, Edie.’
I stay perfectly still as she scoots across the blanket, kneeling next to me. I push my face forward, holding my breath as she sweeps the powder puff lightly over my nose and cheekbones. She’s so close to me, I can see her flawless skin dusted in powder, her eyelashes, her small earlobes.
‘There you are, Edie. Beautiful, just beautiful.’
‘Did Mr Wheaton buy you the necklace too?’ I ask, gesturing to the tiny rose pendant at her throat.
‘Oh, no,’ she says, touching the necklace. ‘I’ve had this for forever. I always wear it.’ She retreats across the blanket and tucks the Coty box and powder puff into her bag.
‘Are you still seeing him in the evenings then?’
Lucy nods and adjusts her tunic so the sun can reach her knees. ‘If Max can get away, we drive out, try and find a little pub where we can have supper. Sometimes we drive for miles. Max is always so edgy about bumping into someone he knows.’ She sighs. ‘If he doesn’t have time for supper, we meet for an hour or so over by Alderbury woods, in Max’s car. I tell my parents I have extra orchestra practice, or a debate club meeting. In fact, I haven’t been to debate club for weeks.’ She plucks a blade of grass and twirls it between her thumb and forefinger.
I picture them together. The windows of the car steamed. Mr Wheaton’s beard tickling Lucy’s cheek as he murmurs sweet nothings in her ear, his hands creeping up under her blouse. My neck feels hot despite the breeze.
‘I don’t suppose you’ve seen Rupert. Since . . . you know.’
Lucy looks sheepish. ‘Well, actually, yes. I went to the pictures with Rupert on Saturday.’
I look at her in surprise. ‘After you got back from the hotel with Mr Wheaton?’
A pink flush sweeps over Lucy’s cheeks. ‘Rupert came round to ask me to the pictures, desperate to apologise, and wanting to know if I could ever forgive him for behaving in such a beastly way. He seemed so sorry and, I don’t know, I suppose I felt sort of unhappy,’ she explains. ‘Max had gone home to his wife . . . Before he left, I’d asked him when I could see him again and he got awfully touchy. He said it had been hard enough organising the night we’d just had and that I mustn’t put so much pressure on him. He said he gets enough of that from his wife. He was cross with me and it spoiled everything. I was upset. And then Rupert turned up, asking me if I wanted to go to the pictures. I didn’t want to hurt Rupert’s feelings.’
I rub at my eyebrow. ‘But how could you go out with Rupert after spending the night with Mr Wheaton?’
For a moment, Lucy looks stricken. ‘I don’t know,’ she says. ‘To be honest, Edie, I feel awfully confused. When I’m with Max, it’s so thrilling. But Rupert really is very sweet on me. We’d make such a wonderful couple. Everyone says so.’
‘Mr Wheaton doesn’t know anything about Rupert then,’ I say sourly.
‘Of course not,’ Lucy replies. ‘And anyway, there’s nothing to know, is there?’
‘No,’ I say, although I can’t help feeling Mr Wheaton would see things differently.
‘I saw her the other day,’ Lucy says, bitterly.
‘Who?’
‘Max’s wife. Her name is June. Of course it’s my least favourite name now. She was coming out of the grocer’s with the baby in the pram and I held the door open for her. She barely looked at me. I mean, she said thank you, but that was it.’
‘Well, she doesn’t know who you are,’ I venture.
‘But it was just awful. I kept thinking about her going home, unpacking her shopping, putting the dinner on, serving it onto the tableware they chose together, getting into bed with Max like she does every evening. I felt quite sick at the thought of it.’
‘You’re bound to feel strange about her,’ is all I can think to say.
‘She’s quite pretty, really, for an older person,’ Lucy muses. ‘She was wearing pearl earrings and a blue dress. I liked the lipstick she had on . . .’ Lucy frowns. For just a moment she looks sullen but then she shrugs it off. Above us a gull cries out and the wind rustles the grass in the dunes. She reaches into her pocket and takes out a paper twist of Parma Violets, pops one into her mouth. I’ve noticed she uses them as breath fresheners.
‘Max met June before the war,’ Lucy continues. ‘He promised her he’d marry her when he returned, only when he came back he wasn’t the same. But she was, and he didn’t want to let her down. She’d waited for him all that time, you see.’ She swallows her sweet and takes another. ‘Max said June went loopy after the baby was born.’
I stare at her. ‘How do you mean?’
‘Apparently she thought men were coming to take the baby away. Men in suits. Then she thought Max was one of them. She threatened him with a steak knife.’
‘Goodness.’
‘Anyway, she’s all right now,’ Lucy says, matter-of-factly. ‘Although Max says she’s always cold with him. He talks of leaving her, of us running away together.’
I look at her, askance. ‘Run away? But where would you go?’
‘Max says he’s always wanted to go to Paris.’ She grins. ‘I don’t know, Edie. Anywhere, really. I’d go anywhere, as long as I could be with Max, as long as it could be just us.’
‘But I thought you wanted to go to London to train to be a teacher?’
‘Well, I do . . .’
I realise my right foot is lying on the sand. It must have slipped off the edge of the blanket. I attempt to brush the sand off; its gritty sharpness is irritating and agitating. But it isn’t just the sand – whenever Lucy speaks of Mr Wheaton I experience a tight fist of anxiety in my chest. As exciting as her affair is, something about it just doesn’t feel right.
‘I think you should finish it with Mr Wheaton,’ I say. ‘He shouldn’t be telling you to stay away from people, or upsetting you.’
Lucy drops the blade of grass. ‘Oh, he didn’t really upset me. It was my own silly fault. I get too emotional about things, I know I do. And Max can’t help his feelings. He’s an emotional person too.’
I press my fingernails into my palms. ‘But don’t you see? He’s making it that way. He wants you for himself when he is already married, and he doesn’t even want you to have friends.’
Lucy’s face darkens. ‘You’re not jealous, are you, Edie?’
My face burns. ‘Of course not.’
We sit there for a moment or two in stony silence. I want to apologise but I also know I’m right. And would Lucy really run away with Mr Wheaton? I suspect it’s all just talk, but I still worry; I couldn’t stand it if she got hurt, if she threw all her plans away.
‘Maybe your mother could help me,’ Lucy says finally, breaking the silence.
‘My mother?’
‘She might be able to tell me my future, or which path to take. Does she do that too? Fortune-telling?’
‘I’m not sure,’ I say cagily, feeling hurt. Why is my opinion never enough for Lucy? She always wants to involve my mother.
‘It’s just the seance, and finding Smudge like that – it was so amazing. Perhaps you could ask her?’
I give a reluctant nod. ‘I can ask her, but—’
‘Great,’ Lucy says, stretching her legs out and wriggling her toes. ‘I’ll come over tomorrow then, shall I?’
*
When I arrive home, entering by the kitchen door, Reg’s large bunch of garage keys is hanging on the hook by the stove, always an indication he is in. He sits at the table cleaning his boots. My face is flushed from the sun; my hair still smells of the sea. He eyes me suspiciously.
‘Where have you been?’
‘Sandy Bay.’
He puts one boot down on a sheet of newspaper and I creep across the kitchen, hoping he’ll forget about me.
‘Been hanging about with the Theddle girl again, have you?’
I stop, halfway across the kitchen, pressing my elbows into my sides.
‘Yes,’ I mumble.
‘Isn’t she a bit posh for the likes of you?’ Reg grins at me.
I can feel my shoulders stiffening. I want to tell him to get lost, that it’s none of his business but, like my mother has recently learned, I am aware it is best not to anger him.
‘I don’t know,’ I say, stupidly.
‘Been in the house, have you?’
I shake my head.
Reg laughs. ‘’Course you haven’t. She’s not likely to invite you in, now, is she? Little Edie Green. There isn’t anything fancy about you, my girl. She wants to see how the other half lives? Feel sorry for you, does she?’ He sets the boots down on the floor then turns to me, his gaze hard and cool. ‘You might be interesting to her right now, because of your mother’s talents, but mark my words, she’ll drop you quick enough when all the fuss dies down. I’ve told your mother the same – they won’t mix with us for long, not with all their airs and graces. People like that will only be a friend when they want something from you.’
I can feel tears pricking the backs of my eyelids even though I know he’s wrong. Lucy isn’t friends with me out of charity or because she wants something from me. I know that’s not true. That just isn’t Lucy. She wouldn’t have asked me to go to the dance with her, and to the beach this afternoon. If Lucy did invite me to The Gables, Reg is the last person I’d tell. I don’t trust him. Not one bit. In fact, I hate him.
I mumble something about not knowing Lucy very long and Reg grins. ‘Well, let me know if you do get a butcher’s at the house, Edie. I bet they’ve got all sorts of things that are worth a bob or two.’ He laughs darkly. ‘And it’s about time you helped out around here more. You need to get yourself a job.’
‘I’m still at school,’ I say, defensively.
He snorts. ‘Not for much longer. You can look for something part-time until you finish. This isn’t a bleedin’ hotel. And you can help out more with the family business.’ He bangs a boot down on the table and I flinch. ‘You know Mrs Goy, the fishmonger’s wife?’
I nod, confused.
‘She lost a son in France. Find out what his name was.’
I blink. ‘Why? And how am I supposed to do that, anyway?’
Reg gives me a sharp look. ‘Just find out. Use your initiative.’
I don’t wait to hear any more. My legs are tired and my feet feel heavy.
‘And go and wash yourself,’ Reg calls after me. ‘You stink of perfume. It’s giving me a headache.’