Hattie’s Home, page 27
‘I know what Ronnie’s been doing here, and I know why. I just didn’t find out soon enough. Is it certain he’s under there?’
She shook her head. ‘They’ve given up for tonight, got to search the whole terrace. They’ve only pulled out one body so far.’
‘Was it Wardick? God, I bloody well hope so.’
Now Hattie was confused. ‘Wardick? The probation officer?’
‘That’s what he called himself. I call him a predator, a wolf that preys on all the lambs we’ll give him.’ He took off the hat, and shoved back the stray lock of hair from his forehead. It had been one of those autumn days that harks back to summer, catching out those who’d already migrated to their winter clothes. Joe’s dark face was flushed, but she knew instinctively it was anger, and not the lingering heat of the day or the wrong suit of clothes, that was the cause.
‘Look, Joe, I don’t know why you’re blaming yourself. But if you can tell me anything that could help us find Ronnie, I need to know it.’
‘You look exhausted, Hattie,’ he said. ‘Let’s find you somewhere to sit down.’
He took her to the Angel, a pub by the river, leaving her at a table on the outside deck that jutted over the inky Thames. She was glad of the breeze from the river. The slap of waves and their receding tinkling over the exposed shingle of the foreshore was somehow calming. Joe came back with drinks and for a moment they were silent, looking out to the lamps strung along the far Wapping shore and the bobbing lights of barges and lighters moored nearby. She had learned it was best never to rush Joe; he did everything in his own time. He liked to think before he spoke, a trait that she sometimes wished she had herself.
‘It was when he took against me, just because I was a keen photographer. It seemed an odd reason not to like someone. But I just put it down to that awkward age, you know? But then I started to think, what if it’s not photographers in general, but one specific photographer, and then I remembered the photos…’
‘Which photos?’
‘Photos I’d glimpsed once, in the camera club’s developing room. I should have done something then, but I just wasn’t sure enough of what I’d seen, and it’s a bloody hard thing to accuse someone of. But when you mentioned his name, that’s when I put two and two together. Wardick – he belongs to the camera club and it was him left these photos in the developer. I only got a brief look. He came back in sharpish and took them when he realized what he’d done.’
‘Joe, what did you see? Were they photos of Ronnie?’
‘Not him, but other kids. I thought at first, he’s their dad, taken photos at bath time. But there was something about them that made me suspicious. The poses weren’t…. natural let’s say, and the faces of the kids, well, none of them were smiling…’
Joe didn’t have to explain any more. ‘Oh no, poor Ronnie. We thought we were helping him…’ She remembered how she’d exhorted him not to miss his appointments, how pleased she was when he’d knuckled down, gone there every week without complaining, and all the time, just like Joe said, she’d been throwing him to the wolf.
‘But why didn’t you say anything?’
‘I didn’t have any evidence. I was waiting to get hold of his photos again, and I did.’ He pulled out a manilla envelope full of prints and she flicked through them, with growing unease.
‘I was going to take them to his boss today. They would have been enough to bring him down, but it looks like Ronnie couldn’t wait. He beat me to it…’
‘What do you mean?’
‘That mountain of debris? Used to be Wardick’s house.’
‘You think he did it on purpose?’
Joe nodded, and there was almost a look of admiration in his eyes. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if the damp squib of a bomb that went off here was his doing as well. No one else was coming to rescue him, so he did the only thing he could think of.’
‘Like you in that Jap camp?’
He nodded silently.
‘It didn’t do you much good, though, did it?’
‘Oh yes, it did. They might have slammed me in a hole for a year, but the minute I set that bomb off I was free.’
‘Really? And then you come home and choose to live all alone in a hut…’ she said tartly.
‘I didn’t say it lasted, but I was free for that moment, and I think that’s what Ronnie wanted.’
‘Poor little sod. Wherever he is, I hope he found it.’ She felt her throat tighten and her eyes brim with tears. She was grateful that Joe stared into his pint, pretending to ignore her distress. ‘So, what do we do now?’
‘It all depends who’s still under there.’
‘I want to believe it’s not Ronnie… I suppose that makes me as loony as Lou.’
‘You’ve really got attached to him, haven’t you?’
She shrugged. ‘I know what it’s like to be the kid who’s mum everyone takes the piss out of.’ But whatever she might say, she knew it wasn’t just fellow feeling. It was the way he’d grabbed her hand when the policeman came out of the squat that day, the way he’d gravitated towards her in the court. He’d adopted her and she found she didn’t mind at all.
‘I think we just assume he’s alive somewhere, and until we know he’s not, we’ll look in all the places he could be,’ Joe said.
‘And what if Wardick’s dead under there?’
‘Then good. But if he’s not, then I’ll hunt him down.’ Joe’s dark eyes glinted like two black flints and she saw a flash of the ex-Chindit who’d survived the prison camp.
‘And if it’s Ronnie?’
‘Then he’s free.’
They left the Angel and went back to Lou’s together, and on the way stopped off at some of Ronnie’s favourite riverside bombsites and hidey-holes, or the ones Hattie knew about. There would be many more, but Buster would have to find those out from the Barnham Street boys. When they arrived back at Barnham Street, the courtyard and landings were full of people. They hadn’t retreated into their own homes, but had already banded together in search parties for the kids who were still missing. Hattie spotted Norman’s dad, but his earlier look of relief had been wiped clean away. ‘He still ain’t come home,’ he explained as Buster, with Lou in tow, hurried up to her.
‘Nothing,’ she said before he could ask, ‘and we’ve looked all along the riverside bombsites.’ Buster looked questioningly at Joe. ‘He’s here because he knows why this happened.’
As she explained quickly about Wardick’s involvement, Buster’s chubby face hardened. ‘I’ll kill the bastard,’ he said.
But Joe put a restraining hand on his arm. ‘Ronnie might have already done that, but if Wardick’s not dead under the rubble we can deal with him later. The important thing is to find the boy.’
Buster attempted to shake Joe off, but his grip was unyielding. ‘One thing at a time, Buster,’ he said, and Hattie nodded her agreement. They left Lou with Norman’s mother, and while Buster went off to look in the haunts he knew of, she and Joe made up their own search party of two.
‘If the boy knows what’s happened, it might be that he’s too frightened to surface. Where’s the place he’s most likely to go to ground if he’s not under all that rubble?’
They tried the Spa Road bombsite, the ruined tanning pits and a drained emergency water tank nearby, but there was no sign of him. By midnight she had exhausted her meagre knowledge of Ronnie’s domain and they were forced back to Barnham Street. The other search parties had returned too. The high-sided courtyard reminded Hattie of the town of Hamelin, the adults sharing a look of stunned incomprehension. How had they let their children be spirited away? It had been a normal thing for the kids to roam free late into the night, finding their own entertainment or mischief among the ruins, and their parents, too exhausted by poverty and war, had let them go. Hattie saw guilt written large on every face, though on some, those whose children had been led home, she saw pure relief.
But there was nothing more they could do that night. As she and Joe walked back to the squatting colony together, she was so bone-tired her legs wobbled beneath her. Joe caught her and offered her an arm so they were walking in companionable silence, his stride matching hers perfectly, for they were of a similar height. When she and Alan walked arm in arm they always seemed to bump each other away, like two moored barges bouncing on the tide. The picture made her smile, but then her hand flew to her mouth.
‘What’s the matter?’ Joe asked.
‘Alan! Oh, bloody hell, I forgot all about it – he was taking me for a special night out and I forgot… poor Alan,’ she groaned.
Joe laughed. ‘He’ll get over it. A missed meal’s not the end of the world. He should count his lucky stars he’s got someone like you.’
In spite of the warm night, she felt a chill raise goosebumps along her arms. Her chest tightened as she met Joe’s gaze. For some reason, what she saw in his eyes was not a surprise. Poor Alan, she thought, as Joe took her in his arms and kissed her.
This shouldn’t be happening, she told herself, yet his lips on hers felt so surprisingly tender and strong she was unable to pull away. What was the point of leaving Crosbie, only to fall into the arms of Joe, of all people? What was she doing? She put her hands on his chest, but before she could push him away, he jumped back.
‘Sorry, oh, sorry. That shouldn’t have happened.’
‘Exactly what I was thinking,’ she said, breathless.
‘It won’t happen again. Alan’s my best mate.’
‘I know that! And he’s my chap!’
She realized she was holding Joe’s hand. Joe, who’d hated her very presence in the camp, Joe who blocked her at every turn. Why was she holding his hand? And then he kissed her again and she knew why.
* * *
Alan had come to Clara at the hut asking after Hattie, his face flushed and clouded with confusion.
‘I can’t believe she’s stood me up. She knew I had this date all planned…’
‘Hattie wouldn’t do that, Alan, not without a good reason,’ she said, coming to the defence of her friend.
‘Well, she never let me know, not a word!’ he said. ‘She was meant to meet me at the pub first, and then we were going to a nice Italian place over Soho, none of your British Restaurant rubbish! I waited an hour and then came here. Have you got any idea where she is?’
‘No, Al, I haven’t, sorry.’ She felt so sorry for him that she asked him in, feeling she was safe to do that. After all, Hattie had said she was sticking with Alan, and he’d shown no signs of leaving her. She’d preferred to put down his declaration as a passing fancy, brought on by their closeness in watching over Martha. He was naturally thoughtful – he’d simply confused concern for her child with love for her. His face brightened suddenly.
‘I won’t come in, Clara, but why don’t you come out? Come out with me! It’s a shame to waste the reservations…’
He had seemed so deflated, she couldn’t disappoint him. She asked Maisie to babysit and, feeling it was the most daring thing she’d done since stowing away on the ship home, she went with him. The meal wasn’t as wonderful as Alan had promised – how could it be when the weekly meat ration was an inch square and sugar was a distant memory? But for Clara it was the company that dazzled her, and for a brief instant she allowed herself to imagine what would have happened if she’d not rejected him, when he said, ‘Clara, I still feel the same.’
His words exploded into her fantasy, and the silence rushed around her. His eyes fixed on hers, and when she didn’t reply, he went on. ‘When you turned me down, I tried to forget… and Hattie seemed to be getting more attached. But, the truth is, all I think about is you…’
*
Now, as she lay awake in bed, Clara’s heart quailed at the thought of all that had happened that evening. She heard Hattie come in and carefully remove her shoes by the door before creeping into the hut. They had partitioned the bedrooms; the walls were only plywood and every sound echoed around the wooden structure. Hattie had shed her clothes and had just slipped into bed when Clara emerged from her bedroom.
‘Hattie, I’ve been awake, waiting… I’ve got something to tell you.’
‘Oh, Clara, I’ve had a terrible day. I just need to sleep,’ her friend replied in a voice hoarse with weariness. ‘Can it wait?’
‘No, it can’t.’
Hattie sat up, wincing as she did so. She spoke into the darkness. ‘What is it?’.
Clara leaned over and switched on the bedside lamp.
‘Clara, you’ve been crying! What’s the matter?’ Hattie took her hand and pulled her down to sit on the bed, but now Clara couldn’t meet Hattie’s eye.
‘I spent tonight with Alan. He was meant to be with you...’
‘I know, I know, don’t go off at me again about him,’ Hattie said with a guilty look. ‘I stood him up, but there’s a good reason. There was an accident – a building collapsed, and we think Lou’s Ronnie might be under there.’
Shock forced Clara to meet her gaze, and Hattie seemed to use up the last reserves of her energy to explain what had happened.
‘Oh, poor Lou, she’ll never get over losing another kid.’ Clara’s heart went out to the woman who had saved Martha’s life.
‘I know. That’s why I had to stick around and help, not that I could do much but search.’ Hattie laid her head back against the pillow. ‘Was Alan really upset?’
‘Actually, Hattie, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. He wasn’t upset, not at all.’
Now Hattie sat bolt upright. ‘He wasn’t?’
Clara shook her head. ‘In fact, we had a really lovely evening together. Maisie babysat and Alan took me over to that Soho restaurant.’
Hattie laughed. ‘That’s the best news I’ve heard all day. Well, I hope you had a bloody good time on my date!’
Clara felt a blush rising and swallowed. ‘The best time I’ve had for ages.’
Perhaps it was the breathless quality of her voice, or the flush on her cheeks that betrayed her. But in the glow of the lamp she saw a look of suspicion cross Hattie’s face.
‘Clara! Don’t tell me you like Alan yourself?’
Clara’s blush deepened. ‘Oh, Hattie, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it to happen…’ She took a deep breath. ‘The thing is – Alan’s told me he loves me.’
Hattie let out a low whistle. ‘Well, sod me. How long’s it been going on?’
Clara dropped her head and began to cry. ‘I’m so sorry. We got close when Martha was ill – you know what a soft-hearted feller he is. I thought he was just feeling sorry for me. ’Course I told him I wouldn’t go behind your back, and then you said you were sticking with him. Oh, if only you’d kept that date, this would never have happened…’ And she was silenced by her sobs.
‘You love him too?’
‘Yes, I do,’ Clara said, wiping her eyes. ‘But he doesn’t know it.’
‘Well, I think it’s about time he did.’
* * *
Next morning Hattie woke early, her mind in turmoil and her heart torn in too many ways to count. Her first thought had been for Ronnie, crushed beneath Wardick’s house, and Lou’s agonizing wait for news. She realized she needed to push all her feelings about Joe and Alan into a small hidden place, an imaginary cell, a bit like the eyeless dungeon Joe had been shut up in. She incarcerated her confusion, her guilt and her surprising desire, slamming the door and turning the key. Love would have to wait, she told herself.
She propped herself up on her elbow and looked out of the hut window. The billowing canopy of trees, just beginning to turn red, filled her eyeline. Joe had suggested bringing Ronnie here once; now she knew it had been an attempt to protect him. She scrubbed a hand through her hair, and pulled down a golden strand to find it full of brick dust from last night. She’d have to wash it before she went anywhere today. Groaning, she eased herself out of bed and threw her coat on. She padded quietly along the duckboards to the NAAFI, praying she wouldn’t bump into Alan. But as she emerged with the heavy bucket of water, she found Joe waiting for her.
‘I didn’t sleep a wink,’ he said, dark-eyed and grey-faced.
‘Cissie would say you look like a death-worn duck!’
‘She’d be right then! Listen, Hattie, I think we’d better just forget about last night. Alan—’
She was unprepared for the disappointment and the imaginary cell she’d constructed burst open. ‘But I don’t want Alan,’ she said. ‘I want you.’
The early morning sun peeked through the tree canopy, adding its gold to the burnished leaves, and Joe’s face was gilded with light as he broke into a wide smile. ‘I’m happy! But I shouldn’t be.’
‘There is no should or shouldn’t, Joe. You can’t argue with what you’re feeling, nor what I’m feeling. And maybe Alan’s been ignoring his feelings for a while too.’
They made their way out of sight, behind the NAAFI building, Hattie wearing only her pyjamas and jacket, with her feet stuffed into some old shoes. She felt that if Joe looked at her properly this morning he must surely realize the mistake he’d made. They walked to the tree line, and stood beneath the old fairy tree, its branches alive with the song of a solitary blackbird.
‘What do you mean about Alan?’ he said, reaching to push a wayward strand of hair from her cheek. She thought of the brick dust and didn’t care.
‘Clara told me he’s been in love with her for a while and he felt too guilty to tell me—’
‘In love with Clara! But why?’
‘Oh, Joe, you can be thick sometimes. Why anyone? Why you? Why me?’
‘A million reasons and I’d like to spend a million days telling you every one of them.’ He drew her close and – to the music of the singing bird – she realized that however many tragedies might be going on around her, love just couldn’t wait.
*
Afterwards, when she’d said goodbye to Joe and promised to meet him later that day, she made her way back to the hut, allowing herself a small smile at her failure to keep her feelings locked in that imaginary cell for more than an hour. But for the moment, there was Clara to face. She imagined there would be an awkwardness between them, but as she let herself in, Clara rushed over and dumped Martha into her arms.
