heart’s quick-time, but as she moves away a woman catches her eye and Bernadette finds herself sharing a smile.
‘What a lot of noise!’ the woman says, and Bernadette says yes, it is, and she stops with the woman and her friends, safe at the back of the crowd, more grateful than she can say for the small spark of empathy.
She waits there, catching her breath. She can hear the costers behind her and the women and men all around her, a dizzying whirl of voices, and the man on the car still raging above them.
‘Is this what we fought for and won? Is this – this waste – is this what was promised us? Fathers and mothers, sons and daughters, have we not all done our duty? Have we not done all, all and more, than was ever asked of us? So now where is our reward?’
‘ – PARSNIPS, lily-white PARSNIPS, sweet ONIONS and pearly BARLEY, they’ll make you a broth that’s better than BRANDY –’
‘I’m not a fiddler, am I now? No one can call me that. No, I put myself about. I’m not a grafter, fair enough, but no one can call me idle –’
‘– I told him, I’m right browned off. Alright, he says, I’ll take you out. We’ll go up west and live it up.’
‘– I’m too expensive for wages, is all.’
‘And did he?’
‘Didn’t he just! He wasn’t getting out of that!’
I want to go, Bernadette thinks. I want to be home. But home is here, now, isn’t it? Isn’t it fair old London Town?
‘No,’ she says. ‘Home is my children.’
‘Are you alright, dear?’ someone says, and she nods and flaps her hand.
‘It’s passing,’ she says. ‘It’ll pass.’
She peers homewards, through the crowd . . . and there is Mary Lockhart, Mary from the Columbia Buildings, at a stall of chinaware. And Mary has seen Bernadette, is looking back at her; is looking through her and away.
Bernadette blushes in the sun. She has too few friendly neighbours – Dora, upstairs: that makes one. Another friendly face or two would make the rest easier to bear. The coldness of these people! Look at this woman now. Beforetimes, Bernadette has caught the way Mary watches her boy. All she does is watch, as if Jem might steal something; as if he might be stealing just by breathing London air. Bernadette has heard the edge in Mary’s voice when her girls play out with Jem. The worry when she calls them in. And her fellow is worse, with his limp and his stare and the chip on his shoulder. Mary’s fellow is trouble. There’s violence in the man, just waiting to get out.
As if their girls are anything, thinks Bernadette (the coldness reaching her own heart). Them with their pokey faces.
When she looks again – ready to scowl – Mary is already gone.
‘What did you wear, then?’ says the woman who showed her a kindness, but she isn’t speaking to Bernadette, of course; only to her friend.
‘My New Look,’ says the friend. ‘We took the bus to Selfridges. Then it was tea at Lyons and then the Marble Arch Pavilion. I drew some looks, I can tell you. The old man didn’t half have a fit!’
Bernadette draws her summer coat around her. She raises her chin and starts for home. She has forgotten the book that Mr Nothing keeps for her. The man on the car is still shouting behind her.
*
Dora is scrumping elderflower, basket on one freckled arm. Or is scrumping only for apples? Perhaps it’s a harvesting; but no, harvesting is things like corn. She has an irritating feeling that elder might just be a picking.
I don’t care, she thinks. I am scrumping my elderflower.
Her English is getting better. She remembers how shameful it was when she and Solly first arrived. It made her feel such a fool. And it made the people seem dull, when all they spoke was gibberish. The first thing she decided, then, was that people talk too much to say even the smallest thing. But then her English improved and she had to admit to Solly that she’d been wrong. It was just that things sounded smaller, in
‘What a lot of noise!’ the woman says, and Bernadette says yes, it is, and she stops with the woman and her friends, safe at the back of the crowd, more grateful than she can say for the small spark of empathy.
She waits there, catching her breath. She can hear the costers behind her and the women and men all around her, a dizzying whirl of voices, and the man on the car still raging above them.
‘Is this what we fought for and won? Is this – this waste – is this what was promised us? Fathers and mothers, sons and daughters, have we not all done our duty? Have we not done all, all and more, than was ever asked of us? So now where is our reward?’
‘ – PARSNIPS, lily-white PARSNIPS, sweet ONIONS and pearly BARLEY, they’ll make you a broth that’s better than BRANDY –’
‘I’m not a fiddler, am I now? No one can call me that. No, I put myself about. I’m not a grafter, fair enough, but no one can call me idle –’
‘– I told him, I’m right browned off. Alright, he says, I’ll take you out. We’ll go up west and live it up.’
‘– I’m too expensive for wages, is all.’
‘And did he?’
‘Didn’t he just! He wasn’t getting out of that!’
I want to go, Bernadette thinks. I want to be home. But home is here, now, isn’t it? Isn’t it fair old London Town?
‘No,’ she says. ‘Home is my children.’
‘Are you alright, dear?’ someone says, and she nods and flaps her hand.
‘It’s passing,’ she says. ‘It’ll pass.’
She peers homewards, through the crowd . . . and there is Mary Lockhart, Mary from the Columbia Buildings, at a stall of chinaware. And Mary has seen Bernadette, is looking back at her; is looking through her and away.
Bernadette blushes in the sun. She has too few friendly neighbours – Dora, upstairs: that makes one. Another friendly face or two would make the rest easier to bear. The coldness of these people! Look at this woman now. Beforetimes, Bernadette has caught the way Mary watches her boy. All she does is watch, as if Jem might steal something; as if he might be stealing just by breathing London air. Bernadette has heard the edge in Mary’s voice when her girls play out with Jem. The worry when she calls them in. And her fellow is worse, with his limp and his stare and the chip on his shoulder. Mary’s fellow is trouble. There’s violence in the man, just waiting to get out.
As if their girls are anything, thinks Bernadette (the coldness reaching her own heart). Them with their pokey faces.
When she looks again – ready to scowl – Mary is already gone.
‘What did you wear, then?’ says the woman who showed her a kindness, but she isn’t speaking to Bernadette, of course; only to her friend.
‘My New Look,’ says the friend. ‘We took the bus to Selfridges. Then it was tea at Lyons and then the Marble Arch Pavilion. I drew some looks, I can tell you. The old man didn’t half have a fit!’
Bernadette draws her summer coat around her. She raises her chin and starts for home. She has forgotten the book that Mr Nothing keeps for her. The man on the car is still shouting behind her.
*
Dora is scrumping elderflower, basket on one freckled arm. Or is scrumping only for apples? Perhaps it’s a harvesting; but no, harvesting is things like corn. She has an irritating feeling that elder might just be a picking.
I don’t care, she thinks. I am scrumping my elderflower.
Her English is getting better. She remembers how shameful it was when she and Solly first arrived. It made her feel such a fool. And it made the people seem dull, when all they spoke was gibberish. The first thing she decided, then, was that people talk too much to say even the smallest thing. But then her English improved and she had to admit to Solly that she’d been wrong. It was just that things sounded smaller, in
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