Part of the Furniture

  THREE

  SQUASHED INTO A CORNER on the crowded train, Juno read the Evening Standard. The bomb which had fallen on the Café de Paris had killed a great many people. Had those girls sheltering with their boyfriends in the basement kitchen, frustrated from their fun by the raid, reached it in time to get killed? Crushed against her neighbours, swaying with the movement of the train, she remembered the party tiptoeing out, suppressing their laughter, closing the street door, their footsteps receding along the pavement.

  ‘I like to catch a train before the raid starts,’ her neighbour was saying to a friend. ‘My daughter and Fred worry less—’

  ‘It says here,’ said the friend, who was reading the Evening News, ‘that the roof was of glass. What can the authorities have been thinking of? Just imagine, glass!’

  Another voice chimed in, ‘Direct hit, wannit? Can’t have known much.’

  A man standing between the crowded seats, retaining his balance with a hand on the rack, said, ‘Society folk ain’t, got no nous,’ and then placatingly, ‘Not a bad way to go, dancing. I like dancing.’

  ‘I think my Fred would rather know,’ said the woman who liked to catch her train before the raids started. ‘Fred doesn’t like surprises and, society or not, they can’t have known.’

  But they had known, Juno remembered, had been told, and they had not listened, had not believed; they were intent on some fun on the last night of Jonathan’s leave, whoever he might be. The man had told them about the glass roof. What had been his name? Sitting squashed in the train, chugging along in the gathering dusk, blinds drawn claustrophobically, she tried to remember. She could remember the weight of his arm across her body and that he was dead and that she, freeing herself, had slid down the banister into the hall, a quick exhilarating slide.

  Aunt Violet’s stairs had a similar rail of polished mahogany; she had slid down that on rare duty visits with her mother—‘Don’t do that, darling, you might pitch onto your head,’—but today she had walked decorously down, left a polite note on the hall table thanking for the coffee, the bath and the knickers, silk-knit elasticated at the knee. Quite unlike the pair they had eased off her gently, determinedly, well, not so gently perhaps; those were now crushed into her bag, slightly torn.

  She was glad she had left a note, though it had been a mistake to visit Aunt Violet, who was kind and conscientious and would now do her utmost to keep in touch and inveigle her, if not into the services, into some form of worthy war work.

  She must collect her suitcase and escape, Juno told herself, shrinking from the prospect of returning however briefly to the house she had lived in for so long with her mother. It was too close to Jonty’s and Francis’s homes, did in fact belong to Jonty’s parents, who were now renting it to another family. She had been a fool to leave her suitcase there—all her other belongings had gone to Canada with her mother—but she had not wanted Jonty and Francis to be burdened with it on their last day in London. (Stupid, I could have left it in the left-luggage at the station.) She had been riding on some sort of wave, carried away.

  Carried away, she could hear her mother’s voice, ‘You get so carried away, darling, do try to be sensible.’ Who was she to talk? Falling in love at her age, she was nearly forty! It was ridiculous; how could a woman of that age fall in love? And with Mr Sonntag, a man of fifty.

  ‘Do call him Jack, darling, Jack is his name. You will learn to love him as I do; we will be a proper family at last, not just you and me. Think of it, a whole new life in Canada.’

  Juno clenched her teeth and twisted her toes in her damp shoes, torn between embarrassment for her mother and affection.

  If she could retrieve the suitcase, she could change her shoes for a more sensible pair.

  ‘Nearly reached Reading,’ said a woman’s voice.

  ‘Will Fred be meeting you?’

  ‘Either Fred or my daughter,’ said her neighbour.

  ‘Nice to get out,’ people were saying as they gathered up their bags. ‘Trains get so stuffy in the blackout, can’t get used to it. You getting out here, love?’ nudging Juno.

  Juno said, ‘Two more stops.’

  ‘There’s Fred,’ said Fred’s wife, ‘standing under the light so I can see him. Don’t these wartime lights make people look like corpses! Fred, here I am.’ She waved. ‘Here!’ she shouted.

  Evelyn, the man’s name was Evelyn. Evelyn Copplestone. He had not looked like Fred, but he had been dead.

  ‘Will you be all right, dear?’ Fred’s wife was opening the train door, letting in a rush of icy air. ‘You all on your own? You look a bit funny.’

  Juno said, ‘Yes, thank you.’ She was all right, she said, ‘Goodnight,’ and pulled the train door shut. Two more stops, and a three-quarter mile walk to the cottage. There were dry clothes and shoes in the suitcase, the house would be empty, she could sleep and tomorrow—well, tomorrow she would decide what to do. No need for the moment to think of Evelyn Copplestone, whose mouth had been open as were his eyes, but he was dead. Dead bodies lack glamour.

  FOUR

  TWO STOPS ON FROM Reading Juno left the train, surrendered her ticket and started walking. She forgot Evelyn Copplestone; more immediate thoughts crowded a mind so choked with love for Jonty and Francis and the surprises they had sprung on her that there was room for little else. It would be much later that it would occur to her that finding a man dead she should have dialled 999, asked for an ambulance or a doctor, or even rung the bell of the house next door and roused the neighbour who had stirred soup in his kitchen. But she had not; she had slid down his banisters and hopped it.

  Later she would be filled with shame, aghast at her selfishness, would question whether he had really yet been dead. Could she not have held a mirror to his nose? Had she had a mirror handy in her bag? Had she even felt for his pulse? She had done none of these things.

  Yet it would have been the height of folly, when she visited her Aunt Violet, to inform her of Evelyn Copplestone’s plight. He was past answering for himself and she, Juno, would have been bombarded with awkward questions. The truth would have been abstracted, the situation relished, the police called, an endless delay enforced and her life messed totally up. Callous though her lack of action had been, it had served towards her survival. Now, walking in her damp, wretchedly uncomfortable, high-heeled shoes, she looked forward to reaching the cottage which had been home for the major part of her life. Though since her mother’s departure to Canada, of course, it no longer was.

  So, stepping out as best she could along a road slippery with snow, and only fitfully lit by a moon which, unlike the night before, dodged constantly behind clouds, Juno’s thoughts, those she could spare from Jonty and Francis, concentrated on the thick shoes, warm socks and dry clothes waiting in a suitcase left in the scullery cupboard at the cottage.

  The cottage would be empty but warm; she would change her clothes. If the water was hot, as perhaps it might be, she could have a bath. Perhaps she could sleep? Then, tomorrow, she would return to Reading, surrender her ticket to Canada at the travel agent, be given a refund, and with this be in a position to decide what to do next.

  Yet as she walked the cold was so intense, and her physical state so miserable, that at moments she regretted the cavalier refusal of her aunt’s offer of help. She must find a job, the refund would not last long; her mother, expecting her in Canada, had left her with the minimum of money. She must support herself. Her aunt was her only relation; had her refusal been too hasty? There were other jobs than those in the forces, she had heard of them. Then what about her mother’s friends, Jonty’s and Francis’s parents? Would Susan Johnson and Margery Murray not help? Were they not old family friends, had they not always been kind? There were several families in the neighbourhood with daughters doing war work, girls whose parents were friends of the Murrays and Johnsons and in some cases of her mother, girls working in munitions or in jobs they called ‘hush-hush’, girls whose fathers were retired military men and in one
case a judge. True, her own father having been a conscientious objector was of little help, but he was dead, need not be mentioned. She could try.

  As she slid and slithered along, she decided to go and see Jonty’s and Francis’s parents and enlist their help. They might even, she told herself optimistically, ask her to stay the night, give her a meal if the cottage had grown cold, help her bypass Aunt Violet. With this in mind, Juno quickened her step and, reaching the cottage, circled round to the back. Fumbling under the boot-scraper for the key to the back door, she felt it lie familiar in her hand.

  With the key in the lock she pushed and the door creaked as it always had, a loud teeth-on-edge creak. It was said that her father, years ago, had tried to cure the creak and failed. The local carpenter was equally unsuccessful and her mother, growing used to it, either ignored it or suggested the noise would deter burglars, alert her to their entry should such unlikely persons invade a house with so little to steal. To Juno the creak was customary and welcoming; almost she expected her mother to call out, ‘Is that you, Juno?’ She stepped inside and felt for the light switch.

  There was an alien smell of Jeyes Fluid and Mansion Polish. Her mother never used either, insisting that Mrs Haley from the village use beeswax and, if necessary, tear-jerking Scrubbs Ammonia for the drains. Juno sniffed and, remembering that the house was empty and that the curtains might not be drawn, forbore to press the light switch.

  There was no familiar scent of wood smoke. The house felt cold. She detected a whiff of soot and remembered that Jonty’s mother had ordered the sweep. Outside the wind was rising, whooshing through the Scots pines behind the cottage. The house sighed and creaked, cooling, unoccupied. She heard a faint rumble of water in the pipes leading to the tank in the attic; the bath water would be cold.

  There was the sudden noise of the front door being opened, a crack of light under the kitchen door, voices and the door slammed shut. She slipped off her shoes, crossed the scullery in stockinged feet and shut herself in the broom cupboard with her waiting suitcase.

  Margery Murray and Susan Johnson were twin sisters; their voices, loud, confident, uninhibited, could carry in a force ten gale. Juno’s mother had once explained this phenomenon as having to do with large families; if you did not shout, you were not heard. From the enclosed space of the broom cupboard Juno could hear every syllable.

  ‘It all looks clean and cosy. D’you think they will be happy?’

  ‘Of course they will.’

  ‘When do they arrive?’

  ‘The Cooksons?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘They said before dark. They may have been held up, but I suppose we should expect them any time—’

  She could hear both women breathe. They were no more than a couple of yards away; if she emerged from the broom cupboard, what would they say? What explanation could she give? Better not.

  Jonty’s mother said, ‘James said, if they have not arrived by now to turn off the electricity.’

  ‘It’s pretty late. Why is James fussing?’

  ‘He is afraid that, not knowing the house, they might shine a light, splinter the blackout. We’d better do what he says.’

  ‘The house is blacked out, isn’t it?’

  ‘Of course it is, but you know James and what he’s like since he became head of ARP. The Cooksons are new. The Marlowes were habituated.’

  ‘I wonder how she is getting on in Canada?’

  Francis’s mother moved away.

  ‘Haven’t heard yet. I shall miss her.’

  ‘So shall I. Did the child go?’

  ‘Juno? Hardly a child—’

  ‘What?’ Francis’s mother was back close to the cupboard.

  ‘Not a child, but not grown-up either. Where’s this mains’ switch?’

  James said under the scullery sink.’ The sisters’ footsteps slapped across the floor. They were wearing gumboots.

  ‘What an inconvenient place.’ Juno could hear Jonty’s mother shuffling to her knees and muffled a laugh. She was a large woman.

  ‘Can you reach it?’ Susan Johnson asked. ‘Want me to try?’

  ‘No, I’ve got it. Switch on the torch, Margery, while I turn this off.’

  The light under the cupboard door turned from yellow to blue.

  ‘Gosh, we look comical in this light,’ the sisters chortled.

  ‘What happened to Juno? I thought she had gone with her mother?’ Susan Johnson breathed hard from her efforts.

  ‘I’m a bit vague. Staying with her aunt? Following on in the next ship? There was some difficulty about getting a passage. The war makes everything so complicated.’

  ‘D’you think Jack Sonntag will cope with her?’

  ‘He struck me as an able sort of man.’

  ‘But Juno—’

  ‘Oh, he will manage—’

  Margery and Susan stood for a moment, then Margery said, ‘She was always under the boys’ feet.’

  ‘Tagging along like a puppy, poor child.’

  ‘All very well when they were younger, but they need girls of their own age now.’

  ‘They were both so kind and patient with her. She must have got in the way—’

  ‘Her mother being such a friend, one couldn’t say anything. I must admit her departure eases things.’

  ‘Eases things.’ The sisters had a trick of repeating what the other had said.

  ‘We must organize lots of pretty girl visitors for their leaves.’

  ‘… their leaves. What they’ll need most is girls and fun.’

  ‘… and fun. It’s called sex,’ said Francis’s mother, Margery.

  ‘What do our darlings know about sex?’ Susan was amused. ‘Sex is called love at their age.’

  ‘Oh, Susan, it’s still sex.’ Margery laughed outright. ‘And I hope it will be with girls we like, girls who will make suitable daughters-in-law, girls with a bit of money.’

  ‘A bit of money.’ Susan laughed too. ‘How awful we are, there’s time enough. Did I tell you that I told Jonty to tell that child they were going off on such secret missions they would probably never come back?’

  ‘Wasn’t that a bit much?’ Margery sounded surprised.

  ‘I thought it would stop her hanging around. I thought she was capable of not going to Canada—’

  ‘A bright idea, but was it kind?’

  ‘What about being cruel to be—’

  ‘Even so. Oh well, done now, I suppose.’

  In her cupboard Juno could hear the agreement in Francis’s mother’s tone.

  ‘You said yourself,’ said Susan Johnson, ‘that you were afraid if she did not go to Canada, you would be asked to keep an eye on her.’

  ‘An eye. One could not have refused, and it would have been a chore,’ her sister murmured.

  ‘Exactly, and she would still be hanging around.’

  ‘Hanging around.’ Margery sighed. ‘So she would, you’re right there.’

  Their feet slapped across the scullery floor and into the hall. The front door opened and slammed shut, the light from their torch flickered down the path, their voices diminished. The pain from the surprise they had provided did not.

  FIVE

  EMERGING FROM THE CUPBOARD, such a charge of rage pulsed through Juno’s body that she felt quite hot. Fumbling in the dark, she stripped off her clothes and dressed again in the clothes from the suitcase; viyella shirt, woollen sweater, corduroy trousers, wool socks and heavy walking-shoes. Then, feeling about in the case, she found handkerchiefs and, taking one, blew her nose.

  ‘Bloody women, bloody women.’

  She folded her London clothes and, with the ruined high-heeled shoes, slammed them into the case, banging it shut, thumping the case as though she were blacking the eyes of her lovers’ parents.

  ‘How could they? How could they? All those years? So smarmy, so kind, so charming, so bloody patronizing.’

  She did not cry; the humiliation was beyond tears. She washed her face and hands at the sink.
The water was cold and bracing. What if she turned up on one of their doorsteps?

  ‘Oh, Juno, my dear, how lovely to see you. Have you forgotten something? Did you come back for it? Is there anything we can do? Are you hungry? D’you need a bath? A bed? A meal? Come along in, my dear, don’t stand there in the cold.’

  She could hear their voices, visualize their smiles. Both sisters were famous for their hospitality, prided themselves on keeping open house in spite of the war, stretching their rations.

  Juno shook with anger, felt warm and energetic, forgot the soreness and discomfort, the bruised ache between her legs engendered by her first sexual encounter.

  Though she had on occasion seen little boys naked, and once or twice, when they undressed when they went swimming, caught brief glimpses of their parts, she had thought little of it. No-one, least of all her mother, had thought to tell her that those dangly bits of Jonty and Francis could expand telescopically into something quite else, something which could force an entry, and hurt.

  Had they tossed up as to who should go first? Had she exclaimed, ‘That’s never going to get inside me!’ Had they heard? Had they listened? Was it Francis or Jonty? They had said several times that they loved her and she, while experiencing no pleasure, had cried out that she loved them, and laughing, for it had been better to laugh than to cry, had caused one of them to grunt, ‘Don’t laugh, I haven’t finished.’

  Afterwards she had been happy when they petted and kissed her, nuzzling her neck, smoothing her hair, closing her eyes with their tongues, tracing fingers over her mouth, saying, ‘You are lovely,’ ‘A sweetie,’ ‘We didn’t hurt you,’ ‘We did not mean to,’ ‘We have never done it before,’ murmuring as they fell asleep and she, not sleeping, had lain between them listening to their sated breathing.

  Standing in the cottage scullery, shaking with anger, Juno forgot all that. Later she would remember the texture of their skin, the hardness of muscle, the life in their hair, their lips and exploring tongues, the strange smell of semen, but now she detested their mothers with her whole being.