In a little while I’ll get up and yawn and say, ‘I’ve finished my essay,’ and you’ll be pleased because it means I’ve stopped pissing about and we can go to bed, or have dinner, or whatever it is you want. Probably bed, even though we’ve been in bed for hours. It’s what I want too. I smell of you, Giles. I can smell myself. You were so quiet afterwards that I thought you’d fallen asleep, but then you started telling me about returning those gold cufflinks to the shop. I know you were browned off that I wouldn’t accept them. God knows what they cost. I also know why you told me what the woman in the shop said, when you explained that your nephew hadn’t liked the cufflinks. ‘The ingrate!’ I can just see her, puffing herself up, utterly on your side. You laughed about that. Really laughed, from your belly. But you liked it, didn’t you? You like getting people on your side. You’d rolled off me by then but there’s never any room in my bed. You were crushed against me still. I don’t want any bloody cufflinks, Giles. I’m not one of your boys.
I’ll put this letter into the pocket of your coat, for you to find later. You’ll probably chuck it on the fire without realising that it’s a letter. Never mind. Even thinking about you doing that makes me want to laugh, but I won’t, in case you get suspicious. There isn’t much to laugh about in the social and economic consequences of currency debasement in the sixteenth century. You’re whistling to yourself now, and doing those conductor movements with your index fingers. You’ll say: For Christ’s sake, Simon, stop writing that bloody essay and come to bed.
I don’t want to stop writing my essay. I don’t want time to move on. I want you to keep on sitting there, looking a bit fed-up, reading your book while you wait for me to finish. I want to hold back, because this is the best part, isn’t it, when everything’s still to come. I don’t want to stop writing to you.
How cold it is. The beach and the raw sound of the sea. That man watching her. The lines burn.
Lily remains bent over the letter. There is blackness inside her, like the time she bled so heavily after Bridget was born. They had to raise the end of the bed.
This is the best part. Everything’s still to come. He wrote that. Simon wrote that. He wrote it to Giles Holloway.
I smell of you. What you say after you make love. She has said that. She’s licked his skin and tasted it.
She can’t look up and meet Julian Clowde’s eyes. He’s read the letter. God knows who else has read it.
All this, and Simon’s never said a word.
There’s too much spit in her mouth. She will have to swallow it or she’ll be sick. Simon loved Giles Holloway’s shoes.
I want to hold back, because this is the best part.
Of course she knows that there are men who want men. They go to Clapham Common, or public lavatories. They are had up in court. But this letter, Simon’s letter … What a fool she has been. Naïve. Stupid. Did he expect her to guess? Was he waiting for her to come out with it one day: ‘Oh, Simon, by the way, about Giles Holloway, I’ve been wondering …’
No, he has hidden it from her. He has wanted to hide it. She was never meant to know.
I don’t want to stop writing to you.
She and Simon have never written love-letters. Perhaps they were never apart for long enough. But some couples would still write; they would seize a piece of paper and write, even when they were close enough to speak to each other. When they were in the same room. Lily’s mother said: ‘Simon is a typical Englishman. He is shy of his own emotions, and he doesn’t want to display them.’ It was true that Simon never kissed Lily when her mother was there.
We’ve always been together. There was never any reason for us to write love-letters. If she ever said that aloud – if Simon ever said that – did they look at each other quickly, to see if the other one was convinced, and then as quickly away?
He knew how to write a love-letter, but it was not to me.
Lily presses her lips together, and carefully folds the sheets of paper that she wants to rip into shreds. Her fingers shake, but she controls them. She puts the letter back into the envelope, and pushes its torn edges into place.
‘There you are,’ she says, holding it out to Julian Clowde. She sees his face but she won’t look into it.
‘Don’t you want to keep it?’
‘Why should I want to keep it?’
It hurts to speak, because her throat is tight. She must control herself. This man is dangerous, Simon has warned her. Her thoughts veer away from Simon like frightened horses, and then slowly back to him. She must show nothing to Julian Clowde.
When Lili burst through the door of their Berlin apartment, crying, her mother said: ‘If Frau Müller says anything like that to you again, Lili, don’t respond. Come straight up in the lift. Ignore her. Don’t show her that you’re upset.’
I won’t think of anything except the children. The children must be safe. The tide is very high. There’s hardly any beach. No one will be coming to pick coal until low tide. It shelves so steeply here. If the water wasn’t so cold and dirty you could dive straight in from the shingle-bank.
No, Lili, we can’t go to the swimming-bath. You know perfectly well why not, so don’t keep asking.
‘Your husband must plead guilty, and then no one will ever see the letters.’
Of course, you have more than one letter, thinks Lily. Even if I’d ripped up that one, you’ve got more, somewhere safe. And you’ll have made copies, too.
‘I don’t know why you’re saying this to me,’ she says. She needs time. Why has he come here? Something’s happened.
‘It will all come out otherwise, I’m afraid,’ sighs Julian Clowde. ‘It explains everything, you see. Poor Simon was being blackmailed. He lost his head. He took files home and photographed them.’
‘There are no files,’ says Lily.
‘What do you mean?’
‘No one has produced them, have they? You haven’t got evidence against Simon. The men who came to our house found nothing.’
‘My dear girl, you know about the camera that was found in Simon’s desk.’
‘Yes, I know about that.’
His voice sharpens. ‘What do you mean?’
Lily doesn’t reply. She shouldn’t have said that. He mustn’t guess that she’s been warned against him. Somehow he has moved her without touching her, so that now she has her back to the sea and he is above her. She glances behind her. The grey tide almost fills the bay now. It’s as if coal-dust has got into the water. You can’t see through it. Her heart is beating thickly now. She mustn’t think about Simon now. She must think only of Julian Clowde.
The sea is behind her and he is blocking her way to the land. She must not panic. The children will be coming out of school, but they know the tides better than she does. They won’t come down here. No one will come.
28
There’s No Ship
Bridget is crying when Sally goes round to the Infants’ entrance to fetch her. It’s not the usual Bridget hullabaloo. Her face is blotched and her body shudders. She looks as if she’s been crying for a long time. The teacher comes out behind her.
‘I’m afraid Bridget has been a bit upset,’ she says, as if Sally is grown up.
‘I’ll take her home.’
‘Mum, Mum,’ weeps Bridget.
Paul catches up as they are going through the village.
‘What’s up with Bridgie?’
‘She wants Mum.’
‘Come on, Bridget the Pidget, cheer up. Don’t you remember? Mum’s going to be at home today.’
But when they reach the cottage it is empty. Everything is upside-down: Mum’s been cleaning. The fire isn’t lit. Bridget is now hiccuping with sobs: ‘I want Mum. I – want – Mu-um.’
‘She’ll be sick if she goes on like this,’ says Paul.
Sally kneels in front of Bridget and puts her arms around her. ‘She’ll be back soon.’
‘She won’t. She won’t,’ weeps Bridget. ‘She’s gone.’
‘Sh
e thinks Mum’s gone away like Dad,’ says Paul.
‘She hasn’t, Bridgie, she hasn’t, I promise you.’
‘Yes, she – has.’
‘Bridgie, we can’t hear you if you keep bellowing like that. Listen. I’ve got half my Mars Bar left. Do you want it?’ says Paul.
Bridget’s eyes are slits in her swollen face, but she nods her head.
‘I thought you would. Now. Stop crying, tell us why you think Mum’s gone away, and you can have the Mars Bar.’
Sally wipes the snot off Bridget’s face. ‘Come on now. Tell us. Look, Paul’s brought the Mars Bar. No. Stop crying first and tell us and you can have it.’
‘Dad’s ship’s at the beach. Mum’s going away on Dad’s ship. I saw them.’
‘Bridget,’ says Paul loftily, ‘that is ridiculous. You didn’t see them.’
‘Don’t, Paul.’ For Bridget is off again. She drops the Mars Bar on the floor and her face shudders as more tears spurt.
‘I did see them – I – did – see – them – I – did …’
‘Christ,’ says Paul, sotto voce, ‘he’s not even on a bloody ship.’
‘Paul!’
‘All right then.’ He bends down to Bridget. ‘Listen. If you’re a good girl and stop that racket I’ll take you to the beach. You can have a piggyback.’
‘Can – you – Can – you – go quickly?’
‘Like the wind.’
Her arms are wrapped around his neck. Her hot, wet face is pressed to him. It’s a bit disgusting, but for once Paul doesn’t mind. Something of her fear has got into him too. And into Sal. Where is Mum? Why isn’t she back?
‘What a hole,’ says Julian Clowde, and he looks around him with contempt. His hands go up and straighten the scarf around his neck. Suddenly, overwhelmingly, Lily’s afraid of him. She sees what hides behind that face of an English gentleman. Cold contempt for all the fools who don’t know what he really is. Simon used to say how clever he was. A tremendous charmer when he wants to be, you’ve no idea, Lil.
‘You should think about your children,’ he says.
The children. She watches him. Now he has crossed the line into darkness.
‘We must think about Lili. This might be our only chance.’
‘You’re being hysterical, Elsa. They’re not interested in children; they’re interested in Jewish money and Jewish businesses. Besides, even those lunatics can’t make out I’m Jewish, just because of Oma. My father was awarded the Iron Cross, for God’s sake. You’re my wife and Lili is my daughter. We are perfectly safe.’
‘If you won’t think about your own child, I will.’
Lily’s fear dissolves. Simon and the letter vanish from her mind. Everything in her peels away from the core that was always there and never shows itself. This man speaks to her about her children. This man is threatening them.
She backs away from him, along the shingle, and he follows. Not too fast, not openly threatening. A man like Julian Clowde will make sure he can back off until the last moment.
The jetty. She’s forgotten about that. The shingle piles up here at the top of the beach so it’s almost flat with the wood. The jetty is a rotten old thing from the days when coal-boats worked this coast. Crabs crawl round the metal stanchions at low tide, and weed drips off the underside of the planking. It’s dangerous. She has told the children not to go out on it. It’s slippery and the currents around it are strong. She means to cross the jetty and get back on to the shingle on the other side but he’s done it again. He is above her, blocking her. She’s giving ground. He fingers his yellow scarf again. She doesn’t think she’s moving but the beach is shrinking away from her. She’s going backwards down the jetty.
Simon’s brothers are here too. They caught her off guard. They got hold of her because she was half-asleep in the hot sun. That won’t happen again. She’s on guard now. She puts a hand to the large single button that closes her coat, as if she’s clutching at her heart in terror. Now the button’s undone. Her left hand slides inside the coat and touches the thin, whippy length of the poker which is jammed into the belt of her overall. Her hand slides out again, free and empty. He is watching every move but he has to glance behind him, quickly, to be sure that no one is coming. She has the advantage of him there.
Her animal self knows now that he means to kill her. That’s why he’s looking round. That’s why he walked from the station over the fields. No one must know he’s been here. She sees a flash of him walking the footpath over the muddy fields, back to the station, having taken care of everything. She is a thing he’s got to get out of his way. The briefcase. They know I had it. They know I saw that file. I am in the way. She steps backwards again. Already the water is deep on either side. Thirty feet of rotting wood and then it stops.
She is up on the balls of her feet. Hair rises on her neck and on her arms as she edges backward, drawing him on. She knows, her feet know, that the planks are coming to an end. He is still moving closer, and Lily Callington vanishes as if she has never been. She is Lili Brand in the hall of their apartment block, jabbing at the lift button as Frau Müller’s poison drips into her.
Bald wird der ganze Wohnblock judenfrei sein. Judenfrei – verstehst Du das?
Lili faces the brass railings and presses the lift button. Her mother has told her not to say a word. She wants to pee. If the lift doesn’t come she will wet herself and Frau Müller will see the puddle on the floor. The lift clanks but does not come.
Ja, judenfrei! Verstehst Du, was das bedeutet?
And now the sea clucks under the boards and the rage of all those years thickens Lily’s voice: ‘Ich werde Dich töten, Du schreckliche alte Hexe, Ich werde Dich töten—’
Her hand is on the hilt of the poker. He is standing between her and her children. He will kill her and they will be alone. He has his scarf undone now, ready. He will strangle her and he will tip her in. She is swaying, light on her feet, watching for his move. Draw him on, draw him almost to the water – He thinks he’s got her—
He lunges for her. Light and quick, she slips sideways. He almost has her but his muddy boots skid on the slimy wood. He is right on the edge now, all his weight too far over. His legs scissor like a clown’s. Even now he lunges to bring her down with him but with all her strength she shoves him away. He falls backward, grabbing at air, twisting as he goes down. His head strikes against the iron stanchion. He is in the water.
She falls to her knees, shivering. He is on his back, and the water sucks at his black coat. The heavy cloth takes in water, bearing him down. Those brogues too. Now the sea begins to pull him. She is on her knees on the dank wood, watching as he is carried away. He doesn’t thrash, or shout for help. He is still facing upwards but she thinks he is hanging in the water. He can’t be standing. His face is barely above the surface. She watches as water washes over it and his features wobble like jelly. His mouth and nose break the surface again. His head is tipped right back now and his eyes are white. His arms flap at the sea but he makes no sound. The water covers his face again, but up he comes, eyes wide, glazed, staring. He sucks for air like a fish before a wave fills his mouth.
She cannot reach him. He comes up again, further out, and she thinks he breaks the surface, but perhaps it is only her imagination. No, he is there. The sea is carrying him. She sees his face, his eyes looking at her but not seeing her. Another wave comes, and then she can’t see him any more.
Lily looks around, but the yellow scarf has gone. Perhaps he was still holding it as he fell. She cannot remember. Slowly, she gets to her feet. There is blood on her knee, and her stocking is laddered. There must have been a nail in the wood. She turns and shades her eyes. The sea shines to the horizon, flat and silvery. Nothing breaks its surface. Mr Austin said they must be careful of the tide race. She cannot get her breath.
There was no one in sight. He made sure of that.
Her legs are shaking. Very carefully, she puts one foot in front of another. The surface of the jetty is so slipp
ery and the shingle looks far away.
‘Mum!’ a voice cries, and then another: ‘MU-UM!’ Paul and Sally fly over the lip of the shingle-bank, on to the beach. Bridgie is on Paul’s back.
‘MUM!’
‘Are you all right?’
‘It’s Bridgie—’
‘What’s wrong?’
‘She’s been crying and crying—’
Julian Clowde has gone. He has melted away as if he’d never been. There are her children, calling for her. In a few more steps, she will be with them.
Lily lifts Bridget off Paul’s back. Bridget clings with her arms and legs like a monkey, wrapping herself around her mother. She’s still heaving with sobs.
‘Oh my poor little duck, what’s the matter?’
‘She thought you’d gone off on Dad’s ship.’
Bridget is soaked with tears and, sure enough, she has wet herself too. Better not tell Paul that.
‘What does she mean, Dad’s ship?’
‘You know, Mum. That’s why Dad’s away, because he’s on his ship in the Navy,’ says Sally. Her lips are folded together and her face is pale.
‘There’s no ship,’ says Lily. ‘Look, Bridget. Look at the sea. Can you see a ship?’
Slowly, Bridget shakes her head.
‘There’s no ship, Bridget,’ says Sally.
‘There’s no ship, Bridget,’ says Paul.
‘Why were you right out on the jetty?’ asks Sally as Lily kneels to undo Bridget’s buttons and set her coat right. ‘You always say it’s dangerous.’
‘I wanted to see where the coal-boats used to tie up.’
‘What were you doing down here anyway, Mum?’ asks Paul. ‘You never come to the beach.’
‘I thought I’d look for coal, but it was high tide.’
‘I knew you were here, Mum,’ says Bridget, leaning against her mother. ‘I told Paul and Sally, didn’t I, Sally? I said you were at the beach.’
‘Don’t start that up again,’ says Paul, but not unkindly.
Lily looks into Bridget’s face, and the eyes where thoughts swim like fish. Are they hazel today or are they brown? So open, so transparent. Her little girl.