It was August.
The Jossers had been in Conservatory Cottage for three months now. And looking back over that quarter of a year it seemed that their lives had been divided sharply and brutally. Cut clean through, as it were, so that the portion which they were now living hadn’t got very much to do with anything that had gone before. One by one, the links binding past and present had been severed until, in its total effect, the change added up to something more like a re‐incarnation than a move.
Mr Josser still spent a lot of his time thinking about Dulcimer Street. And you could tell from odd remarks that Mrs Josser let fall that she was remembering the old days, too. ‘It can’t be easy for Mrs Vizzard on the tea‐ration. Not with just the one of her,’ she would say. Or: ‘Nothing from Clarice. I hope that doesn’t mean she’s ill or anything.’ But it was no use. It was a different Mr and Mrs Josser who had lived in those comfortable first‐floor rooms in No. 10. Those Jossers had had a son who was coming home to them.
Naturally, as soon as they had heard that Ted was missing – and it was Doris who sent the telegram on to them from town – they went up immediately to be with Cynthia. Mrs Josser didn’t lose a minute. Simply piling the breakfast dishes unwashed in the kitchen‐sink she left them there. And Mr Josser did not attempt to argue with her. There was, he recognised, something sacred and indisputable about such a moment. Not that it was the slightest use. Five minutes saved now wasn’t going to be any good to Ted. But, somehow or other, not saving it would have meant that they hadn’t done all they could.
And on the whole it was a good thing that they went up when they did. Because Cynthia was obviously in a bad way. In a very bad way. Though not half so bad as Mrs Josser had expected. And the fact that she was not prostrate was for the terrible, the futile, reason that she didn’t believe her news.
‘He’ll come back. I know he will,’ she said cheerfully. ‘He told me so before he went away. Ted’s always done what he said he would…’
Only, at this stage, she broke down. And it was then that Mrs Josser was so useful. Because she was able to distract Baby and amuse her so that she shouldn’t notice that anything was the matter. And while Mrs Josser was looking after Baby, Doris was able to comfort Cynthia. Not that it was easy for any of them. Because Baby, with the all innocent torture of childhood, insisted on going on with the conversation. She said ‘Daddy’ over and over again, pausing attentively in between as though waiting for an answer.
Because of her resolute faith in Ted’s return, Cynthia refused even to consider leaving Larkspur Road.
‘Suppose he comes back and finds me and Baby gone…’ she said every time Mrs Josser raised the point. And in face of reasoning such as that Mrs Josser did not press it. Not for the moment, at least. It was obvious that any appeal she made would pass unheeded. And she had no strength left with which to be persuasive. It seemed that with the telegram all her powers had gone out of her. There was just nothing of her left. And, in the end, she had allowed herself to be brought back to Ditchfield, empty, broken and exhausted. And conscience‐stricken. She’d promised Ted that if anything happened she’d look after Cynthia and Baby. And she wasn’t doing it.
But all that seemed a long while ago now. Cynthia and Baby, despite all the visits she had paid them, had detached themselves and become separate. Even Doris, her own child, was separate, too. She didn’t belong to them any more. When she might have been coming down to Ditchfield she was going instead up to Carlisle where Bill was stationed. Because Bill had been one of the lucky ones. Unhurt and undefeated, he had taken the same road that Ted had taken. Only Bill had taken it further.
And with no Doris and no Ted, it was only Mr and Mrs Josser who were left. Just the pair of them. A rather elderly couple in a pleasant country cottage. And being alone so much there was a lot of time for thought. The same thought. A thought that neither of them would admit. More than once, their eyes had met when they were both wondering what was the meaning behind it all. Why should Bill have been spared and Ted taken? Simply that.
And each time they had looked away again, before the other could possibly admit it.
The truth, though Mr Josser wouldn’t have admitted it, was that he had severed quite a few of the old links himself. Had just let them slip from him without troubling. Links like the South London Parliament, for instance. Right up to the day of the move, he’d intended to go on with that. Not as a member of the Cabinet, of course. He couldn’t keep that up from a distance. But, simply as an ordinary working Conservative M.P. And, in the result, what had happened? He hadn’t been up there once. Not once.
Astonishingly enough, there was such a lot to do where he was. In Ditchfield, he was practically one of them by now. Admittedly, the L.D.V.s had turned him down. And so had the Special Constabulary. And the wardens. But in offering himself, he had met a lot of useful people. And, being the one entirely free man among the lot of them, all the odd jobs naturally came his way. In one week, he had collected for the cottage hospital; helped to move a whole family of evacuees – whole, that is, except for the father whose presence would have solved everything; organised a newspaper‐delivery for the members of the local searchlight battery by the simple means of taking the papers over to the site himself; and assisted in the building of the Ditchfield anti‐tank trap.
The last was by far the biggest undertaking. He didn’t have to do any of the heavy work on it himself. The sawing and digging was reserved for the L.D.V.s. In consequence, Mr Josser’s own task was comparatively light. Light, but responsible. He was stationed a hundred yards or so ahead of the actual spot, just round the bend so that he could warn oncoming motorists. As it happened, nobody, not even a pedestrian, came along while Mr Josser was on duty. But they might have done. And half an elm‐tree mounted on a disused cartwheel wouldn’t have been a pleasant thing to run into. It wasn’t meant to be.
Another thing that kept Mr Josser busy was that Mrs Josser was out such a lot. And that was something altogether new. In Dulcimer Street she had practically never gone out. Except in emergencies. And here in Ditchfield it was as though there were an emergency practically every day. For a start, on Tuesdays and Thursdays there was the Women’s Institute – Tuesdays for a Make‐and‐Mend Class, and Thursdays for Economical Cottage Cookery. The vicar’s wife had persuaded Mrs Josser to be one of the demonstrators. And the classes were certainly well attended. Which was strange because the pupils who came toiling across the countryside on foot had every one of them been making and mending and cooking economically in cottages all their lives.
It wasn’t even as though the rest of the week were free. There were bandages to be rolled. And on Mondays there was the inspection at the Rest Centre, and all the blankets had to be taken down and shaken out and then folded up again. Mrs Josser had been put in charge of the amenities. In a locked cupboard there were two tins of condensed milk, a thermos flask, a primus stove, a canister of tea, and a tin kettle. So that if any household in the village were unlucky enough to be bombed out all that they had to do was to move across the road, send for Mrs Josser and, in a jiffy, they would find themselves tucked up between aired sheets and sipping something hot.
In fact, by August, 1940, Ditchfield like the rest of England was remaking itself. Practically over‐night, the old notion of the family had been discarded and the still older motive of the tribe had come back into its own again.
A tribe’s O.K. so long as you’re a member of it. Then the rest can carry you. And you get things for nothing. And, if you’re smart, nobody notices. And if anything goes wrong there’s all the rest of them to draw on. A tribe’s O.K. So long as you’re a member of it.
But what about Percy? Yes, what about Percy? We saw so much of him at one time. Something almost every day, in fact. And now he’s passed clean out. Not so much as a glimpse of him. Has anything happened? Is he all right? Is he still there? Is he – to put it bluntly – a member of the tribe? Or isn’t he?
Well, he’s still there. And, in a way, he’s all right. But he isn’t a member of the tribe any more. Not really. When other people were getting out their spears and smearing on the war‐paint, he got left behind. And the funny thing is that, though the warriors are some of them far away by now, their names are on everybody’s lips. Whereas you never hear Percy mentioned. The tribe’s forgotten all about him, even though he’s still at home. Forgotten entirely. By all except Mrs Boon, that is. She still prays for him night and morning. And talks of him, too, when the doctor’s wife isn’t listening.
The plain fact is that there’s been too much happening for Percy to be remembered. And, if you must know, Percy never was as important as he thought himself. It was really only by chance that he happened to hit the headlines at all. And by then the mischief had been done. After the palaver was over, the women‐folk just shrugged their shoulders and returned to their cooking‐pots.
Percy was out.
But not to himself. With Percy, Percy still counted for a lot.
And he was getting on O.K. He was on uppers now. And he hadn’t made any mistakes yet. At least not bad ones. Not bad enough for the foreman‐warder to have spotted. And if they got past him, why worry? Percy hadn’t got to wear the boots, had he?
He wouldn’t have believed that he could get so interested in boots. Not just in three sizes of them. But he had. He could tell which size he was cutting by the shape of the curves as he went round them. Could have told it in his sleep. And if he knew as much as that in four months, he’d be on to stitching before the year was out. And that wasn’t bad. There were some seven‐year men who’d never worked up to stitching. Seven years, and never got beyond soles. Percy was getting on O.K., he was.
The prison chaplain thought so, too. He was pleased with Percy. Very pleased. He was such a bright intelligent lad compared with most of them. And polite. He always got up when the chaplain entered. And called him ‘sir.’ That was one of the best of signs. It showed respect for authority.
If only Percy had got a bit more of a voice, the chaplain would have given him a place in the choir. Because music, properly handled, could work miracles. But as the choir was impossible, the chaplain tried his other approach – Association Football. The great thing about soccer was that it taught that it was the team and not the individual that mattered. And the team‐spirit was everything. That was why he encouraged an intelligent interest in the professional side of soccer as well. Not to bet on, of course. No pools. But simply because soccer was fought between teams. And the best man in the team was the man who was best for the team. There was a sermon in every cup final.
So that Percy could keep up the conversation on Wednesdays which was the day when the chaplain had his private time with him, Percy read all about soccer in the marked cuttings that were provided. It wasn’t difficult, memorising the fixtures. And the chaplain never noticed that he didn’t care for the game really. Too tame. Not enough in it. No excitement. Dogs were better. Or boxing. Or exhibition dancing with a partner you took round with you. But if the chaplain liked to talk soccer, that was O.K. by him. It was better than some of the things the chaplain talked about.
But with nothing to talk about but soccer and nothing to read but what was in the prison library – and those books were a proper disgrace: no thrills, no sex, no love‐interest, even – no wonder Percy had to fill his mind with other things. When the key turned in the door at night he used to go over the same old story every time. He was eighteen now. Be nineteen in September. And a life sentence like his only meant fifteen years really. That would make him thirty‐four by the time he got out. Things would have changed a bit by then. Couldn’t help it. Progress was like that. Houses would be all‐plastic, he wouldn’t wonder. And television in every room. Tune in to New York for hot crooners whenever you felt like it. Or go across there. Atlantic taxis. Sixty‐seaters. With stewardesses wearing sailor‐hats. Come to think of it, it wouldn’t be motor‐cars people would be stealing then. It would be auto‐gyros. Pick up a plane in an airfield and get chased through the clouds by cops in rocket‐helicopters. And no shooting when they caught up with you. Just tickle your ribs with a death‐ray… Percy extended his forefinger, his lethal death‐ray finger, and made a low whirring sound with his tongue. His finger toured the four corners of the cell, exploring it. Percy was doing a death‐ray hold‐up.
He’d told the chaplain once about how funny everything would seem when he came out again. And the chaplain had got it all wrong. He’d been sorry for him. But that wasn’t what Percy meant. Percy was looking forward. There was nothing in the least old‐fashioned about Percy.
Besides, he was O.K. He’d been lucky being put inside so early. Suppose he’d waited a bit, and then gone inside. Where would he have been then? He’d never have caught up again. As it was, he’d still be on the right side of forty when he took up the reins again. And even forty wasn’t old. Not for a man. He knew a lot of girls – quite lively ones, too, some of them – who preferred men that way. He hadn’t got anything to worry about. He was lucky having gone in so early. He was O.K.
It was only his mother that he was worried about. He’d have liked her to be O.K., too. But somehow he didn’t know whether she’d care for things the way they’d be when he came out. Plastic houses, and things.