She caught the bus to Whitechapel in a moment of nostalgia, wanting to look again at all her old childhood haunts, perhaps even to see some faces she remembered.
But the Blitz had altered everything. Gaps in rows of shops, the space between them still piled high with rubble and dumped rubbish, large beams shoring up adjoining buildings. Even the shops remaining were nothing like those she remembered. Where was the one which stocked fancy wedding dresses? Or Uncle Solly’s, the pawnbrokers, whose windows were a glimpse into Aladdin’s cave, stuffed with everything from ice-skates to gentlemen’s hip flasks. Had Solly died, or merely taken his booty to another less dangerous area? Had people managed to get back their best table-cloths, their sets of false teeth or their wedding rings?
The shops she did recognise were smaller and sadder than the picture she’d kept in her head. Norah’s Woolshop had a partially boarded-up window and merely three or four skeins of wool grouped around some ancient-looking knitting patterns. Lasker’s, the baker’s, had only bread and a few currant buns, not the mouth-watering display of fancies, meat pies and sausage rolls she had once drooled over on her way home from school.
Once in the back streets, it was hard to get her bearings. Complete terraces were gone, and the increased daylight and space confused her. Only the first four houses in Alder Street were still habitable. Another four were shored up, windows boarded over; then came a huge gap where her home and its neighbours had been. Weeds grew waist-high over rubble, and a group of shabbily dressed children were making a camp with some sheets of corrugated iron. Ellie guessed the spot they had chosen was once the back yard of number 18.
‘I used to live here,’ she called out as she clambered over to the children. She hoped to find they were younger brothers and sisters of her old playmates. ‘Do any of you know what happened to Edna and Wilf Ross? They lived downstairs to me.’
The children’s response was disappointing. In Ellie’s time in Alder Street a friendly question from a stranger would have created instant interest and a great deal of unsolicited information and cheek. But these children merely halted their play and stared at her with cold, suspicious eyes.
‘Never ’eard of ’em.’ One gangly ten-year-old boy with closely cropped hair took a couple of steps towards her, his expression suggesting he thought it was more likely she was a truancy officer than someone with a genuine enquiry.
It began to rain then. The children scuttled off and Ellie went back to Whitechapel Road, then turned into the back streets towards Bethnal Green. As she walked, her raincoat becoming sodden, the sights grew more and more depressing. Demolition men seemed to be working everywhere, thick grey dust covering the weeds that sprouted up through debris, the gutters turning to small streams because the drains were blocked. Some of the badly damaged houses were still inhabited, cardboard and rags shoved into broken windows, tarpaulins spread over roofs. The children Ellie saw looked healthier than their counterparts before the war – food rationing for these kids meant a far better diet than their parents had ever had. But there seemed to be an air of despondency now, which this area, for all its deprivations, had never shown before.
Perhaps she was being sentimental, but where was the vibrancy, the bustle? A few men huddled in a group, smoking under the shelter of a church porch, but there was no laughter. They were all shabbily dressed, greasy cloth caps pulled down over grey, sullen faces. Not one of them turned to look at her, much less whistle or smile. A queue of women waited outside a butcher’s shop, their turban-style headscarves and pinnies already wet through. They were silent, all eyes locked into the interior of the shop, as if afraid any distraction would prevent them from getting their fair rations.
She wished she hadn’t come. In the West End it was possible to believe recovery was just round the corner, even if food queues were just as long and there were still terrible shortages of even the most basic of necessities. Suburban housewives flocked to the shops, searching for new clothes, men with demob money in their pockets crowded the pubs and dance halls. Cleaning up was going on all around, and there was optimism in the air.
Here in the East End, Ellie was right up against the real aftermath of war: widows, men who would never work again, homes unfit for human habitation, children who had run wild while the bombs dropped. These people had taken the worst of the bombing, lost family members, their homes and possessions. What was the government doing about them? Kensington, Chelsea and other wealthy areas would soon be put right, but who cared about the poor people’s needs?
Ellie could now see for herself why it was thought that Labour would be voted in at next week’s general election. On VE Day it had seemed inconceivable that England would ever stop following Winston Churchill, but if the plight of the working classes here in the East End was mirrored elsewhere in Britain, who could blame them for wanting to see a party in power who would do something for them?
It wasn’t just the heavy rain which drove Ellie into the library; more a stab of anger that her mother had had no choice but to live in poverty with her child, that she hadn’t lived long enough for Ellie to help make her life more comfortable. She would find out about this Sir Miles Hamilton, if only to lay a few old ghosts and understand her mother more fully.
As Ellie rode back to the West End on the bus, she considered what she had learnt.
Miles Hamilton was born in 1890. He served in the Coldstream Guards in the First World War, and was mentioned twice in dispatches. He had two younger brothers, Guy Timothy, and Richard Martin. He was educated at Marlborough, and then Sandhurst. He had married Mary Lucy in May 1920, the only daughter of Frederick and Louise Outwell of Romsey, Hants. His home was Awbridge Hall in Hampshire and he had no children.
There was a great deal more – companies he was a director of, his family coat of arms – but she didn’t recognise the company names and she had no idea what the Latin motto ‘Paratus’ meant. Only one small item suggested it was possible he was her father: Sir Miles’s grandmother was named Helena too, and she had died in 1924, the year Miles and Polly had met.
‘You can’t go sniffing around Hampshire,’ she said to herself as the bus passed the Tower of London. ‘Forget him and think about what you’re going to say to Archie Biggs. That’s far more important.’
Jack and Bonny walked down the slope to the teashop by the River Arun. Jack was brooding, as he had been since he called for her at Aunt Lydia’s. Bonny felt he was building up to say something unpleasant.
Bonny had arrived in Amberley from London four days ago. If Jack hadn’t telephoned yesterday to say he’d got a forty-eight hour pass she would have been on the first train back to London this morning, for she hadn’t got the warm welcome she believed she was entitled to from Aunt Lydia.
For the last two days it had been warm and sunny, but today the sky was overcast, with a stiff breeze. Nothing in Amberley seemed the same as Bonny remembered. No one seemed interested in her; even Belinda Noakes had said she was ‘too busy’ to drop in and see her. The river was grey and choppy, the tables on the grass had no table-cloths, and now even Jack was different, treating her with such suspicion.
‘Tea and a buttered bun?’ Jack asked as they arrived, dusting off a chair for her. ‘Are you warm enough, Bonny? We could go inside if you like.’
‘I’m fine here,’ she said churlishly, buttoning her cardigan over her pink dress. ‘It’s a shame the weather’s changed. I wanted to go to Littlehampton.’
Jack looked hard at Bonny, wondering when she was going to give him a proper explanation. He’d telephoned her digs in London two days ago and discovered she’d left the show over a week before and yet hadn’t written to tell him. Perhaps he should have played the same game and ignored her, but instead he’d rung Miss Wynter and discovered Bonny had come here. He’d managed to wangle a spot of leave, but now he almost wished he hadn’t bothered, since Bonny was telling him lies again.
‘Jack! What a surprise!’ Mrs Talbot the café owner came out to take their order, her
big face breaking into a welcoming broad smile.
Bonny was irritated further by the woman’s delight at seeing Jack and the fact that she wasn’t included in the welcome. Jack had nicknamed Mrs Talbot ‘the Battleship’ when Bonny first arrived in Amberley – she was a formidable, large woman, always doing battle with someone. But she had always been very fond of Bonny, admiring her hair and her clothes and keeping sweets for her. Now she barely nodded, and instead gave Jack all her attention.
‘What a fine-looking man you’ve become,’ she crowed, patting his broad shoulders almost as if she’d been personally responsible for all that muscle. ‘When I think what a scrawny little lad you used to be! The Bakers must be so proud of you. You are staying with them, I suppose?’
Bonny thought Jack looked good too, especially in his uniform. He hadn’t grown any taller, or his hair any less fiery, but there was character in that rugged face. So his front tooth was broken, his skin turned red and freckly in the sun, but there was something disarming about the combination of gentle eyes, wide, wide smile and tough, muscular body.
‘You’re looking pretty good yourself!’ Jack grinned engagingly at ‘the Battleship’. ‘Yes, I’m staying with the Bakers, who else would have me? Another six months or so of the army and I’ll be back here permanently. And how’s the world treating you?’
As Mrs Talbot launched into an account about her son, still on active service in the Far East, and her daughter’s approaching wedding, Bonny was reminded how much affection everyone in the village had for Jack and how many of the girls wished they could be his sweetheart. She felt bitter that no one put out the flags for her coming home.
Lydia had not believed Bonny’s story about having food poisoning, mainly because Bonny wouldn’t agree to see Dr Noakes. She tersely asked why Bonny hadn’t contacted her parents or gone to the hospital if she was so ill, and pooh-poohed the story of Bonny losing her job through Ambrose’s vindictiveness.
Bonny was feeling very down when she arrived, wanting nothing more than sympathy and unconditional love. Lydia’s cruel jibe, ‘You can lock up from a thief, but not from a liar,’ had made her feel even lower.
There was absolutely nothing to take Bonny’s mind off the ordeal she’d been through, just endless hours of painful introspection and anxiety about her health. She was still losing blood, and just bending over to do some weeding in the garden made her feel faint. She felt weepy all the time, and when she’d seen a neighbour with her new baby she had become so choked up that she’d had to turn and run indoors. Everything seemed confused in her mind. Why was she getting soppy thoughts about babies now, when only a few weeks ago she saw pregnancy as just a hurdle to be swept away?
Lydia suggested she go into Littlehampton and find a job, but how could she work in a shop or as a waitress when she felt so bad?
Now Jack was freezing her out too.
‘Tell me what really happened,’ he said once ‘the Battleship’ had served the tea and sailed back to the café, out of range. ‘The whole truth, not the silly story about food poisoning.’
‘It’s not a silly story,’ Bonny retorted indignantly, jumping off her chair. ‘I just hope you and Lydia get it one day and find out what it’s like.’
Jack jumped up too, catching hold of Bonny’s wrists, preventing her from pummelling him. ‘I know you too well,’ he grinned. ‘If you’d been poisoned the whole world would’ve known about it. You’d even have sent me a telegram so I could bring you grapes. I do believe though that something serious has happened and I want you to tell me, however bad it is.’
Bonny slumped against him, defeated. They were alone on the riverside; the only sound was of water slapping against the moored rowing boats, wind in the trees and an occasional caw of rooks. It reminded her of the days when she had kept nothing from him.
The true story was festering inside her. Each night since arriving back here she’d recalled every minute of her ordeal in that kitchen in Soho, and now she knew she couldn’t keep it in any longer.
‘I’ll tell you if you promise you won’t tell anyone else,’ she said, her head against his shoulder, an idea already forming in her mind. ‘Especially Aunt Lydia!’
‘Okay.’ Jack let go of her. ‘Now sit down and I’ll pour the tea.’
The story she told was the truth, except that she skilfully switched Ellie’s and her own roles. It wasn’t just fear of revealing her own unfaithfulness; more a compulsion to portray herself as a heroine. In the role of friend, nurse and comforter she could heighten the drama of the gruesome back-street abortion, while at the same time winning Jack’s respect for standing by Ellie.
‘It was so awful,’ she whispered, her eyes welling up with real tears as she launched into graphic detail, sparing him nothing. ‘Ellie was in so much pain. I thought she was going to die.’
‘Oh Bonny.’ Jack turned pale. He was worldly enough to know such abortions were commonplace in big cities, but until now he hadn’t known what they entailed. ‘You shouldn’t have got involved!’
‘I had to. She had no one else to turn to. I begged her not to go to the rehearsal so soon afterwards, but Ellie can be very pig-headed and she insisted,’ she said, wiping away her tears with the back of her hand. ‘I hadn’t had any sleep for days, I was exhausted and I could barely manage the steps myself, but I was afraid Ellie would collapse. Ambrose hit me for telling her to go home.’
‘He hit you!’ Jack’s voice rose in indignation and his gentle brown eyes darkened. ‘I’ll go up there and beat the living daylights out of him!’
‘There’s no point now.’ Bonny put her hand on Jack’s arm soothingly. ‘I expect I punished him enough by walking out and taking Ellie with me. I didn’t want to, but what else could I do?’
‘You did right.’ Jack sighed deeply. He was shocked by the story: Bonny had painted such a vivid picture he could feel the pain, even smell the blood. ‘But where’s Ellie now?’
‘I packed her off to stay with an old friend of hers,’ Bonny lied. ‘We hadn’t got any more money for her rent. I couldn’t stay at my digs once I’d walked out because Ambrose pays for them. I’ve been feeling so ill too, I keep thinking of that little baby.’
Jack was a great deal more sensitive than his tough appearance suggested and he could well understand how any woman could be traumatised by witnessing such shocking events. Now Bonny’s dark-ringed, dull eyes, the tearfulness Lydia had spoken of, the way she’d clung to him last night, at the same time showing no passion, all made sense.
‘Why didn’t you confide in Lydia? She would’ve understood.’ Jack took Bonny’s hand in his, distressed by her obvious grief, yet heartened to find she was capable of feeling another’s pain so keenly. It was a dimension of her character he hadn’t seen before and he took it as a sign that she was growing less selfish at last.
‘Ellie would never forgive me for telling anyone. If you ever meet her you mustn’t let on I told you either. You promise?’
‘Of course I won’t,’ Jack reassured her. He was disappointed that he hadn’t got to see the show at the Phoenix – this was the first leave he’d had since it started. ‘I feel very sorry for her, but it’s you I’m most concerned about! You’ve lost the job that meant so much to you, and you’re brooding about it all too.’
‘I don’t think I’ll ever quite get over it. It haunts me, do you understand what I mean?’
Jack sensed she meant it had frightened her off love-making. ‘I thought you’d found someone else last night,’ he admitted ruefully, blushing when he remembered how jealous he’d been.
They had made love less than a dozen times since Jack went into the army. Aside from two wonderfully memorable occasions when he had managed to get them a room in a guest-house while Bonny was dancing in Brighton, they’d had to make do with fields. Last night Lydia had left them alone in the house while she visited a friend and Jack had been puzzled and angered by Bonny’s coolness.
‘I couldn’t help the way I was.’ Bonny dropped he
r eyes from his. ‘I suppose I’m scared now that it could happen to me.’
‘But I love you,’ Jack said, tilting her face up to his. ‘I’d always be careful and even if you did get pregnant you know I’d marry you immediately.’
Jack’s loving consideration after such a mammoth deception was almost too much to bear and the tears that trickled down Bonny’s cheeks now came straight from her heart.
‘I’ll be all right soon. It’s just shock, I suppose. Anyway I haven’t been a very good girlfriend to you, have I? I don’t write as often as I should.’
‘I’m not the greatest letter writer either,’ Jack said stoutly, refusing to remember just how few letters he’d received from her. She only managed to see him for the odd night when it suited her, rarely putting herself out. ‘But it will be different when I’m demobbed. Alec’s going to take me on as a partner in the garage.’
‘Really? That’s wonderful.’ She forced herself to sound enthusiastic. ‘But aren’t you going home to London for a while? What about your mother?’
‘I couldn’t care less if I never see her again,’ he said with a shrug of his shoulders. ‘She forgot me and my brothers during the war, never even remembered our birthdays. As far as I’m concerned the only debts I’ve got are to Mr and Mrs Baker, they’ve been the ones who stood by us. Tom’s off with the railways now, but they’ve still got Michael till he leaves school and they don’t get a penny off Mum for his keep.’
‘I’ll have to go back to London soon and find another job,’ Bonny said quickly. She needed to make it quite clear she wasn’t going to wait around here. ‘I promised Ellie I’d help her with the rent, and anyway I’ve left all my things there.’
‘I can give you a bit of money to tide you over.’ Jack reached into his pocket and pulled out two pound notes, putting them into her hand. ‘I saved this intending to take you out somewhere a bit fancy, but it will just have to be the pictures and fish and chips now.’