Trust Me

  It didn’t amount to anything very wicked, just wandering around giggling when boys tried to pick them up – the farthest they went was a few kisses before catching the last train home. But by the time Anne was seventeen it was autumn and too cold to spend evenings outside. She had soothed her parents into complete trust so that they no longer constantly checked up on her when she said she was staying with someone overnight. So when one of the girls suggested going dancing at the Empire in Leicester Square Anne was only too eager.

  It was just the third time she’d been to the Empire when she met Reg, and she fell for him right away. He was as opposite to the kind of man she knew her parents would approve of as it was possible to be – he was a builder not an office worker, his accent was strong South London, he wore a sharp, hand-tailored suit, the kind spivs wore, and his face looked as if it had been moulded by fists. When he took her in his arms to dance, for the first time in her life she suddenly knew what desire was. There was something animal and raw about him which made her feel all weak inside, and even though one of her friends drew her aside later and warned her he was too old for her and probably dangerous, she didn’t listen.

  He walked her and her friend Marianne to Charing Cross station later to catch the last train to Petts Wood. Just before the train came in, he caught her up in his arms and kissed her with such passion that she knew she’d keep the date they’d made for the following Monday, even if she had to lie to her parents to do it.

  Anne got up after Reg had left with the children. She ran a bath and held a cold flannel to her inflamed cheek while she waited for the bath to fill.

  ‘I’m only twenty-seven,’ she said aloud to her reflection in the mirror. ‘Surely I’m entitled to more than this?’

  Later, as she lay back in the bath, her hair protected by a scarf, she looked down thoughtfully at her naked body. Not a stretch-mark, her breasts as firm as they’d been at seventeen.

  ‘If only I hadn’t got pregnant,’ she murmured.

  It wasn’t persuasion from Reg that pushed her into making love, it was she who instigated it. He wanted to wait until they could be married, but kissing and petting wasn’t enough for Anne, just as meeting him in secret wasn’t either. Perhaps it was as her mother claimed, that she knew the only way her parents would tolerate him was through disgracing herself.

  Anne winced as her mind went back to that ugly scene on a summer’s evening in 1938 when Reg had come to the house to share the responsibility of telling them the news.

  Her father had remained standing for the whole time, his back to the fireplace, his mouth set in a straight line of disgust.

  ‘She’s having your baby!’ he exclaimed. ‘You must have raped her, my daughter wouldn’t allow an animal like you to touch her willingly.’

  Her mother was even worse. She sat on the couch weeping as if she’d just been told her child had been savaged by a mad dog.

  Yet Reg was wonderful, he kept so calm and insisted they heard him out.

  ‘I know you disapprove of me because I’m ten years older than Anne, a mere builder from Deptford, and you wanted a lawyer or a doctor at least for your daughter. But I love her, she loves me, and we want to get married right away.’

  Her father ranted and raved, her mother wept and insulted Reg by saying he was a common upstart. Yet still Reg stayed calm. ‘Give me a chance to prove myself,’ he said. ‘I will take care of Anne and our baby. She will never want for anything, but meanwhile just give Anne permission to marry me if you don’t want the disgrace of having a little bastard in the family.’

  Of course her parents did give their permission. As Reg had put it so succinctly, they didn’t want the shame of an illegitimate child. But they never even tried to like Reg, they turned up their noses at the tiny flat in Lee Green he found for himself and Anne, and refused to visit them there. By the time Dulcie was born in December of that year there was talk of war, men being called up, and Anne always had the impression that her parents were pinning all their hopes on Reg being killed, for that way they could get their daughter back home where they believed she belonged.

  But Reg survived the war. It was her mother who was killed in an air raid during the Blitz, caught while scurrying to a shelter while shopping in Lewisham.

  ‘Oh Mummy, you were so narrow in your outlook you wouldn’t even try to see the good in Reg,’ Anne sighed, standing up to soap herself all over. ‘If you’d just forgiven me maybe everything would have turned out different.’

  As Anne sat down in the bath again she thought back to when her mother was killed. Anne had been evacuated to Sussex when Dulcie was seven months old, billeted in a big country house near Hastings with three other young mothers. With them for company, and older women in the village to give advice and help, she felt secure and happy, and for the first time in her life she was making decisions for herself, learning to become independent. When Reg came to see her before being sent overseas with the army, they talked about finding a permanent home in Sussex once the war was over. Yet the happiness she found there shattered when her mother was killed in September 1940.

  Her father couldn’t bear to be alone, he made Anne come back and keep house for him, even though it was so dangerous to be in London. He kept crying all the time and expected her to wait on him the way her mother had, complaining about everything Dulcie did, insulting Reg. All the while bombs were dropping, turning every night into a living hell.

  It was impossible to stay with him. She wanted to go back to Sussex, but her sense of duty compelled her to find somewhere near to her father, so she took the poky flat in New Cross. Yet when he died three years later, he proved how little he’d thought of her sacrifice or her future, because he left everything, the house and his savings, to his younger brother and nothing to her and his granddaughters.

  Anne got out of the bath, her eyes swimming with tears. Reg had said dozens of times that she ought to let the past go, and she wished she could, but it just wouldn’t let her. It was slowly poisoning her, making her into someone she didn’t want to be.

  Before Anne began dressing she took out the bottle of gin she kept hidden in the back of the wardrobe and drank directly from it. It burned her throat and made her eyes water but the warming effect was instantaneous, pushing back the bleakness inside her.

  Two hours later, at eight o’clock, she was behind the bar at the Station Hotel smiling and pulling pints as if she was the happiest woman in the world. The saloon bar was packed as usual on a Saturday night, as was the public bar next door, and a private party was in full swing in the function room at the back.

  Tosh, the landlord, stood at the corner of the bar with a large whisky in one hand and a cigar in the other, watching Anne. He liked to see her breasts moving up and down as she pulled pints, and the curve of her pert little arse under that tight dress, and to know that he’d have her again before the night was over.

  No one, least of all Tosh, knew how he’d got that name – his real one was Albert Bright. He was born in Stepney in 1900, and he had taken his childhood nickname with him when he turned to professional boxing. Although he’d never reached any dizzy heights in boxing circles, he had made enough money to buy a little pub in Mile End, and by branching out into black marketeering during the war, he got enough to buy this place.

  Situated on the corner of Leahurst Road, directly opposite Hither Green station, the large Edwardian premises were a little goldmine. The immediate area was short on pubs, travelling salesmen found his rooms upstairs a convenient base from which to travel to the City and the West End, and he had two function rooms he let out for parties and weddings.

  Tosh had been married, but his wife had run off with a sailor twelve years ago. He hadn’t missed her, only his pride was hurt, but it had made him wary of women ever since. He knew he wasn’t much to look at, short, stocky and balding. His nose had taken a few too many punches, his teeth were bad and he had a big gut. Yet women were always making a play for him. They claimed it was because he
had style and made them laugh, but he knew only too well they were mostly only interested in his money.

  Anne Taylor was no different. She was just looking for a way out of a marriage which bored her. She was barking up the wrong tree with him, though. She might be the most thrilling screw he’d ever had, as beautiful as a May morning and ladylike to boot, but he wasn’t about to get himself saddled with two kids and a man like Reg after his blood.

  He was prepared to play the game for a little longer though. Just the thought of pushing his cock into that sexy mouth made him quiver and when he saw there was a slight lull behind the bar, he beckoned her over to him.

  ‘Want a break for a while?’ he asked. ‘Janet will come in from the public bar to take over. We could go upstairs for a drink.’

  Anne groaned inwardly for she knew exactly what Tosh really wanted, and not for the first time she regretted embarking on an affair with him. She had begun working lunch-hours at the pub last December, and Tosh made her feel good because he was always saying how beautiful she was. Before long she was staying on after the pub closed for the afternoon, and over a couple of drinks he would tell her about his boxing days, the elegant nightclubs he went to, and all the glamorous people he used to mix with. She sensed that he still hankered for that kind of life, and it seemed to her that if he had the right woman on his arm, he’d go back to it. She found herself thinking about him constantly, imagining herself as that woman, stepping out for a night on the town in a fabulous evening dress and a mink coat.

  It turned bitterly cold at Christmas, and then the snow came. The flat was freezing, the windows iced up even on the inside, it was an ordeal just to get undressed and have a bath, let alone try to wash clothes, dry them and find something in the shops to make into an evening meal. Reg didn’t seem to notice the cold, and it irritated him that she just couldn’t stand it. If she hadn’t had her job to go to at the pub, she thought perhaps she might have gone mad, for it was warm there, and a few drinks, a bit of flattery, took the edge off her despair.

  Tosh was so attentive, so caring. He often gave her a few chops or some mince to take home when she’d used up her meat ration, and he would shove a pound note into her hand and tell her to pop over to the hairdresser’s and get her hair done, but most of all it was his appreciation of her, rather than desire, that lured her into having a little kissing and cuddling with him.

  It was mid-February when she finally let him make love to her. Even that came about because the water pipes were frozen up at home, and he suggested she had a bath upstairs in his flat. It was heaven in his bathroom, a big radiator kept it warm, the water was piping hot, and the couple of large gins she had before getting into the bath transported her into a blissful state where she didn’t care about anything but the moment. She had been wallowing in there for almost an hour when Tosh walked in with a hot, fluffy towel for her in one hand, and another large drink in the other. He wrapped her up in the towel and carried her into his bedroom, and even if he wasn’t a great lover, the wickedness of it, the sensuality of the warmth and comfort, and the gin, made it quite delicious.

  Anne was very glad she wasn’t a Catholic like Reg, or she’d have been compelled to confess her adultery. But she got her punishment in other ways, because each afternoon after going to bed with Tosh, which was never so good after the first time, she had to go home again and face the girls and Reg. She knew she was failing them all by not having meals ready and letting the flat get so dirty and untidy, but instead of guilt making her try harder, it seemed to have the reverse effect. The more Reg complained, the less she did, and each night when she went to bed her dreams were all of a glamorous life, with her dressed in silk and satin, diamonds around her neck, and being with a man who wanted to show her off.

  She knew it was wicked, but sometimes she even had fantasies about Reg dying. It wasn’t that she actually wanted him dead, all she wanted was freedom, just as she had as a child. Maybe that was why she riled him so often by buying new clothes – she had never consciously thought about it, she just wanted to look stunning, but perhaps it was a way of making him get so exasperated with her that he’d leave her.

  ‘Come on then!’ Tosh said impatiently, repeating his suggestion they went upstairs for a drink.

  Anne forced a smile. ‘A break would be nice,’ she said, even though she had no heart for even speaking to him, let alone sex tonight. She knew it was a mistake to get involved with Tosh, but she needed to keep him sweet just in case Reg did take it into his head to slam the door on her.

  Tosh poured her a large gin and tonic upstairs in his sitting-room. There had been a time when Anne admired his flat with its ostentatious flock wallpaper, the cocktail bar, radiogram and sumptuous couches, but tonight it looked as vulgar as he was. He had barely poured her the drink before he unbuttoned his fly, pulled out his flaccid cock and suggested she woke John Thomas up.

  ‘I’m not really in the mood tonight,’ she said, looking away. ‘Reg and I had a fight today, things are going from bad to worse at home, he actually hit me.’

  She thought that Tosh would put his cock away, come and sit beside her and reassure her he would take care of her if necessary, but he didn’t. Instead he moved right in front of her, caught hold of her head and pushed her mouth down on to him.

  ‘Fill your mouth with this,’ he said, and held her head so she couldn’t move away. ‘I’ve been watching your tits jiggling all evening and I’m as horny as hell.’

  It was vile – no tenderness, no loving words, no thought for her, just bestiality. He smelled musty, he kept muttering filthy things, and he was pushing himself so far into her mouth it made her retch. He didn’t even have the grace to withdraw when he came.

  Anne turned away and spat into her handkerchief, then quickly took a large gulp of gin. Tears of humiliation welled up in her eyes, and when Tosh slumped down on the couch beside her and tried to put his arm around her, she shrugged him off.

  ‘Don’t you dare ever treat me that way again,’ she hissed at him. ‘I’m not some old tart.’

  ‘Sorry, doll,’ he said, not even looking vaguely ashamed. ‘I got carried away. I’ll make it better for you later.’

  ‘I can’t stay later,’ she said, wishing she could go home right now. ‘I told you already, things are bad at home. I think Reg might even throw me out.’

  ‘Well, you can always share my bed for the night,’ he said as if it was just a joke.

  Anne riled up. ‘Don’t you care about me at all?’ she asked indignantly. ‘I’ve already told you Reg hit me once today, I’m hurt and scared and all you’ve done is make me feel worse. I wish I’d never come here to work, I’ve had nothing but trouble since I did.’

  ‘Come on, babe,’ he said, pulling her into his arms and kissing her. ‘You know I think a lot of you, I’m just not much good at the sloppy stuff. But you’ve got to make the peace with yer old man, you’ve got the little ones to think of. Now sit there, drink yer drink and have a fag till you’ve calmed down. I’ll have to get back to the bar.’

  Anne did as she was told, but Tosh’s words and his actions had done nothing to reassure her, just stirred up even more resentment and bad memories.

  Reg held his two girls’ hands as they walked through the dimly lit subway under Hither Green station. They had eaten egg and chips in a café and then gone to the Park cinema. This rather elderly picture-house rarely showed new releases, but instead packed people in by putting on a double programme of old, well-loved major films. Tonight’s were first Dumbo and then Daddy Long Legs starring Shirley Temple, but although both girls were riveted to their seats during Dumbo, May had begun to fidget in the second film and Reg had no real choice but to leave. All the way down the hill Dulcie had been complaining that May had spoilt the evening.

  ‘That’s enough now, Dulcie,’ he said finally. ‘May’s only five and she can’t concentrate for long. We’ll get to see Daddy Long Legs again one day.’

  Dulcie shut up then, it had after all bee
n a lovely surprise going out with Dad. When she heard him raise his voice to Mum about her dress she’d thought they were all in for another miserable evening.

  ‘Can we go in and see Mummy?’ May asked as they came out of the station. They weren’t often out when it was dark and the Station Hotel, all brightly lit, looked and sounded very inviting with music wafting out through the doors.

  ‘Of course not,’ Reg said. ‘Children aren’t allowed in pubs.’

  ‘But I didn’t see her in her new dress!’

  Dulcie looked sharply at her younger sister – sometimes she could swear May was half-witted. Surely she knew the new dress was what had made Mum and Dad argue again today? She’d soon be telling Dad how the park-keeper chased them.

  ‘I expect she’ll put it on again tomorrow,’ Reg said, and to Dulcie’s surprise he didn’t sound angry, so maybe he’d forgiven her. She thought her parents were very odd sometimes, Granny had said more than once that they were chalk and cheese. When they weren’t fighting they were all lovey-dovey, kissing and hugging each other. That embarrassed her almost as much as their fighting disturbed her. She wished they could be like Mary Abbott’s parents a few doors away. They were just nice to each other all the time, neither sloppy nor nasty. But then Mr Abbott was a very little man, and his wife was big, fat and plain. Perhaps that was why?

  ‘Into bed quickly,’ Reg said once they got indoors. ‘While you’re getting undressed I’ll make you some hot milk.’

  As he waited in the kitchen for the milk to warm, Reg looked around him and winced at the state of it. The walls were greasy, the lino hadn’t been washed for weeks, and the tablecloth and curtains were filthy. He’d painted it all glossy white when they moved in eighteen months earlier, the kitchen cabinet and the window-frames bright yellow. Anne had been so pleased with it that she’d made the yellow gingham tablecloth and curtains and bought a couple of plants for the window-sill. Why had she let it get this way? Didn’t she see the dirt, or was it just that she didn’t care any more?