Chapter 26

Thursday, 5 December 1940

What was left of his belongings were arranged in neat lines on the table in Ruth’s living room, and Anthony wondered where they could go in this new house. In his study at the school his books had been in alphabetical order. Others had commented on his fastidiousness before, saying he was too rigid, too inflexible. It only occurred to him now, stood on his own in this unfamiliar house, that it wasn’t that everything needed to be in its proper place. He didn’t really care about those kinds of details. It was that he was leaving places tidy for those who came after him, the only thing he could really control in his life, as if it was the only way to bring order to a chaotic world. At least he had a full-time job again, now that he had been approved as a full-time warden.

He picked up a hairbrush and moved it to the other end of the line, just because he could. It was made of brown painted wood, which was now blackened round the edges as if it had been thrown on a fire. His other belongings were in just as poor a condition, but at least he had managed to salvage something from the ruin of his house. He picked up one of the two books he had salvaged, a copy of A Christmas Carol, and played it in his hands, feeling the roughness of the paper cover. He thought about the fact that now even the book itself was accumulating stories. Not just the stories he attributed to it, but the stories it was living itself. Like him, it had survived a bombing. For all he knew, the book would probably outlive him. Someone would find it next to his corpse, a final testament to the man he had been in life. It wasn’t as chilling a thought as he might have expected.

The other was H. G. Wells’s The War of the Worlds. Both had been gifts from Julie, expressing their shared love of books and reading. Back then he had always begun discussions on what he thought Wells had been trying to tell them, but now his story seemed even more significant. An enemy they couldn’t fight. Ruth had told Anthony that Wells had helped to found the Workers’ Birth Control Group, and Anthony realised he knew very little about the man. Anthony liked the idea of writing a scientific romance once the war was over. He placed both books back on the table, they had become even more precious than they had been before.

‘What have you got there?’ Ruth asked as she walked into the room, pointing at the floor.

There was another item, which he hadn’t organised with his collection of keepsakes. When he had entered the house he had dropped a floral canvas bag by the leg of the table. Until now he had almost forgotten about it. It wasn’t that he was keeping it a secret, but the bag itself had a special significance for him and it wasn’t something which he had ever talked about.

‘It belonged to Julie,’ he said. ‘I suppose it’s the last thing I have of hers.’

He picked it up by the long handles and dangled it over the table before placing it carefully next to his things. Ruth watched silently.

‘Well, she didn’t have much in the house, but this was precious to her. It contained her knitting, and knitting was the only thing she could really manage when she was pregnant with Marc.’ He didn’t know why he was telling Ruth all of this, but that was where they were in their lives now. It was strangely comforting to be able to talk about these things which he had kept locked up inside for so long. It was a relief that he knew Ruth would not judge him, not really. She was capable of turning the journalist inside her off when it came to personal matters. He trusted her, and yet he was still uneasy. ‘I suppose Julie was too young to get pregnant. We were barely old enough to be married, and she didn’t respond well.’

Ruth put a hand on his arm; she had sensed where his story was going.

‘I didn’t expect to gain Marc and lose her at the same time. I should have done more to take care of her.’ He could feel the tears pricking at the corners of his eyes, but he blinked them away. It didn’t pay to cry, he was supposed to be a man. It wouldn’t do at all. He returned to the bag. ‘I kept this because it reminded me of those times we spent together, and it smells of her.’

He closed his eyes, recalling the memory of her loving face. Sometimes she faded from view, blurred around the edges, but in this moment the memory was strong. Still Ruth had not said anything, only faintly murmuring in sympathy while he talked. He supposed that she had never heard him speak like this before and was unsure how to respond. He decided to change the subject.

‘You’ll never guess what’s inside,’ he said, picking up the bag again and forcing a smile onto his face.

‘Oh, what?’ Ruth replied, playing along.

‘Knitting!’ He chuckled to himself and felt the weight lift from his shoulders.

‘I would have thought so, but what specifically? Are you playing games with me, Mr Lloyd? Show me.’

With another chuckle he did as he was told. Opening the clasp, he pulled out a bundle of black wool and handed it to Ruth.

‘What’s this?’ she asked, unfurling it. ‘Oh, it’s a balaclava. Why was your wife knitting balaclavas? Were you planning to rob banks? Oh!’

‘You remember the “If You Can Knit You Can Do Your Bit” campaign? Well, after Julie died I couldn’t stand her unfinished projects, and I thought that knitting might bring me closer to her, might help me better understand her. We had such little time together. Well, recently, in my spare time, I have taken to knitting these for the services. They’re not very good.’

He handed her a few other items he had assembled, including the start of a pullover on which he had recently been working.

‘They’re better than I could do,’ she said. ‘A few dropped stitches here and there, but I’ve never seen a man do anything like this before. Peter never would, and I’m sure that the servicemen would be grateful, even if they’re not perfect. You’re a man of surprises, Anthony.’

She handed him back the balaclavas, and he almost didn’t notice it, but her expression dropped.

‘And when exactly does a man like you have spare time?’ she asked.

He thought for a moment. Circumstances had been strange recently. Yes, he was a teacher, but now the school was gone. His home had gone, but he was still a volunteer.

‘I err… I have never slept particularly well. Especially since Julie died. I suppose that’s why volunteering works so well for me, it keeps me busy at night, but when there are no raids then I need something else to occupy my mind. Stop it from wandering, if you understand what I mean?’

‘I do. Honestly. I think you and I are very similar in that regard.’ She moved towards the living-room door.

‘Some Ovaltine before bed?’ she asked. He hadn’t had any in years and he was struck by the domesticity of it. How quickly they settled into their roles.

‘No, thank you. I don’t think it will help much.’

She smiled at him and left the room. A few seconds later he heard her footsteps on the stairs. He would wait a few minutes before following. Looking at the bag, he realised how much he wanted to follow her to her own room, but he couldn’t. It had been a long time since he had felt that impulse and he quickly extinguished it. That wasn’t why he was here, he was a guest and he had his own room to go to, an unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar room. He would get no comfort tonight, other than the comfort of having a roof over his head and a place to sleep, and he supposed that was a lot more than many people in this city had. He was grateful and, as he walked up the stairs to that unfamiliar room, for the first time in years he wasn’t lonely.

The blade flicked a drop of water over the side of the bowl as he waved it back and forth. It had been several days since he had been able to find the time to shave. Time had been filled with raids and the fallout of losing his home. Stubble rubbed at the crook of his neck. He had never liked that sensation, and was eager to get rid of the growing beard. At first it had felt strange to ask Ruth for a place to shave, but after a few days he had become desperate. The metal bowl was already flecked with shaving cream as he worked away at one side of his jaw.

She had already left for work, and he was thankful that she was not a witness to this act. Something about shaving felt intimate. It was something that could not be shared, an act of changing his appearance and changing how he wanted the world to see him. Even now that he was sharing a house with Ruth he didn’t want her to see behind the front that he presented, the front he had spent years cultivating. He wasn’t ready for that.

He flinched as the old blade cut his skin, which only made it worse. Blood dripped down into the now cooling water. It was the closest he had ever come to wielding a dangerous weapon, but the most he had done was cut himself. He had never wanted to kill another man, even if he did want to enlist. That was different; it was like joining a service, ‘doing your bit’ as everyone said. He had once been halfway through a shave when an air raid siren had been sounded and he had gone on duty with half a face of stubble. Thankfully in the blackout no one had noticed, but he made sure now not to shave too late in the evening. The Germans couldn’t keep him from a clean face.

He looked at himself in the battered mirror, bloodied but cleanly shaved. In many ways today was a new beginning and it gave him hope as he cleaned up and went to work out what he was going to do with his day.