Between the Regions of Kindness Read online

  And there was Violet, bouncing awkwardly through the sitting-room door – the daughter of the Head of the Accounts Department, in her green-flowered silk dress, with her dull blonde hair perfectly lacquered and her full lips painted bright red. Like a china doll, with eyes too wide open, tiny and plump with awkwardly hinged limbs.

  Isn’t she beautiful, Rose had thought, although Violet wasn’t beautiful. Her face was wide and flat and she had freckles that she’d tried to hide by putting on too much powder. But still Rose couldn’t stop looking at her. Violet made her think of confectionery – a sugar-crusted cake, pink icing, twinkling silver balls. Or bread – a loaf newly taken from the oven, smelling of dough and speckled with currants.

  As they shook hands, Violet’s grip felt hot and fleshy and she held onto Rose’s hand too long. And perhaps that was why Rose became flustered and, turning on the tiled floor, put her umbrella in what she assumed was an umbrella stand – except it turned out to be a vase instead. A giant Chinese vase, one of a pair, standing one each side of the sitting-room door. The umbrella poked out of the vase at an awkward angle. Rose was uncertain whether she should pull the umbrella out and try to make a joke, but she judged it best to leave it there.

  As she turned back, she saw the slight smirk on Violet’s face. Of course, Violet wouldn’t tell her that she’d put her umbrella in a vase but that smirk – so very subtle – was enough to let Rose know that Violet had seen through her. A cheap little girl from the country wearing her only good pair of shoes and her hair done in a saucer wave, but only two shillings in her purse.

  In the velvet and brocade sitting room everyone made jokes about the names. Violet, Rose, Rose, Violet. A few flowers more and we’ll have a bouquet. Frank must have been there – perhaps he was serving drinks or playing the piano. There amidst the ornaments – ornamental himself, beautiful even, but part of the background, something to be kept behind glass, admired from a distance. That’s what she’d thought of him then, if she’d thought at all.

  Later they all played sardines, dashing up and down the stairs, squeezing under beds, behind curtains, into laundry cupboards and attic storerooms. And Rose had dashed into Violet’s bedroom – all salmon satin – and looked into the wardrobe, then heard a giggle and found herself pulled into the silk of the dresses, pressed tight against the plump freckled skin of Violet’s arm. And it was because they were squeezed in so tight, and had drunk too much punch, and couldn’t stop giggling, that they suddenly clung to each other and kissed as though they were lovers, and the wardrobe seemed to tip wildly, turning upside down, and the fur of the coats made them sneeze.

  Where is Violet now? She’s probably come in from the shelter and gone upstairs to wash. Rose sits Mollie on a red-tasselled chair beside the hall table, notices now that the child smells of urine. Her stick legs dangle high above the floor. She crosses her ankles and folds her hands in her lap, neat and precise, but then her head lolls against the hall table. Rose reaches into her coat pocket, is relieved to find that Bobby the toy dog is still with them, hands him to the child, then takes off her own muddy shoes. Her damp stockinged feet pad on the carpet as she passes the library door on the half landing. At the top, she stops and listens. A faint and regular ticking comes from above, as though a tap has been left on.

  She stops at the open door of Violet’s bedroom. Everything is just the same – the quilted satin bedspread, the curving oak bedhead, shaped like a seashell, the swagged curtains and lace blinds, the kidney-shaped dressing table top with its skirt underneath and oval mirror above. Violet’s shoes are lying beside the dressing table. Such lovely shoes, soft grey kidskin, tiny pearl buttons.

  Rose hears a fluttering and looks behind her. The glass has gone from the window at the back. Shards are scattered over the Chinese rug. But Violet is there, asleep in bed with Mollie – the other Mollie, Violet’s baby. Darling. Such fun for them both to have the same name, don’t you think? Violet’s head is turned to one side, her hair spread across the pillow, the sheets pulled up to her chin. Her eyes are closed, her lips slightly parted. Cheeks blue-white, lashes spread like a fan. Beside her, tucked against Violet’s chest, is the top of baby Mollie’s tiny head, the hair flat and lying in neat lines, like the grain of wood. Rose stands beside the bed watching the sleepers.

  Again, that fluttering sound, that kindly whisper. A blackbird sits on the shade of the bedside light, which is decorated with a brown fringe, each strand of it finished with a tiny glass bauble. As the bird bobs and hops, the fringe swings from side to side, the baubles knocking against each other. The bird watches Rose, its beak poking back and forwards, its claws rattling as it balances. Again that rhythmic tap, tap, tap. Water is dripping through the ceiling. Tap, tap, tap. It falls onto the sheets, leaving a circular mark, just near Violet’s knees.

  Pack some clothes for Violet and Mollie, Rose tells herself. They can’t stay here until the window at the back is boarded up. They must all go away, at least for a couple of nights. Violet has a car and she probably has petrol, or she can get it. Soon she’ll get up and make tea, on a tray with a lace cloth. A committee will be organised, a plan agreed. A note will be written on lavender card with a purple ribbon through the top.

  But until that moment comes, it is Rose who must organise. She goes to the wardrobe and pulls open the door. The same sneezing fur coat is crushed in among the silk dresses but no hand emerges to pull Rose in. She closes the door and crosses to the dressing table. A pot of powder is open, and a tube of lipstick doesn’t have a lid. A silver-backed brush has strands of Violet’s hair twisted into its bristles. Violet, I told you to get out of the city. I told you. You could have gone to your father in Worcester. I pleaded with you to go.

  One of the drawers of the dressing table is open. A wad of bank notes is pushed down beside a book – ten and fifty-shilling notes, twenty pounds or more in total. Rose lifts the notes out. Violet has always been generous. Darling, let me buy it for you. No, no. The blue, not the brown. So much better for you. It’s my treat. I insist. I absolutely insist.

  In an ebony box a string of pearls is curled around three military medals. Another box contains cigarettes and a lighter, coins, broken earrings, a needle case and an envelope. Folded inside it, a jaundiced birth certificate carries details written in cramped black ink. Violet Mary Whiteley. Two identity cards lie behind it and a marriage certificate, also a typed letter giving the details of Stanley Bunton’s death. Royal Warwickshire Regiment. Tuesday, 28th May, Wormhout, near Dunkirk. Killed in action. Of course, it doesn’t say they were all just herded into a barn and shot. Rose thinks of them sometimes, grunting and squealing like animals in an abattoir, the hot stench of manure and the blood smeared across the walls.

  A creak and a rustle sound at the door. Mollie has walked up the stairs and is watching with eyes like the turning headlights of a car. Bobby the toy dog swings from her hand. Behind her another figure appears – an ARP warden with mud splattered across his cheek. Rose feels her body turn hot, blood bloom towards her skin. She needs to put the money and the papers back into the drawer but it’s too late so she pushes them into the pocket of her skirt. Trying to appear casual, she turns back to the dressing table, positions the hairbrush parallel to the mirror and puts the lid back on the lipstick.

  You all right, love? the warden says. Take care with the floor.

  Yes, of course. Thank you. I’m quite all right. Rose says this as Violet would say it – brisk and certain – but she’s terrified the warden will ask her to turn out her pockets. Looters can be shot without trial. Rose looks across at Mollie, who stands staring at her – her headlight eyes fixed on the pocket with the money in. The warden’s face is stripped naked. He breathes in sharply and his hand moves up, claw-like, to cover his mouth.

  Best to pack a few things, love, he says through his fingers.

  Yes. That’s what I was just doing. Rose walks to the wardrobe and takes out a suitcase. The leather is smooth as a conker and printed near the hand
le are Violet’s initials. V.M.B. The clips and the buckle are decorated with diamond-like studs. The case was an engagement present from Stanley. Rose remembers Violet parading with it up and down the hall, practising for being married, that day in September when war was a nightmare from which you might still wake.

  Rose pushes the kid shoes into the case, then a rose-pink Fair Isle cardigan, three silk dresses. Her arm glides into a fur coat, a brown brimmed hat positions itself on her head. The names all merge together – Violet, Rose, Rose, Violet. A few flowers more and we’ll have a bouquet. The lavender smell of the dresses is so familiar that they must belong to her. Behind her she can hear the warden moving towards the silent sleepers. Rose’s heart squeezes like a clenched fist. The bird squawks, flutters upwards, lands on the end of the curtain rail. Rose clicks the suitcase shut.

  Best to come out now, love. The floor may not be sound.

  Rose looks towards the bed, sees the pool of water spreading wider.

  Come on now, love. Best not to wait around.

  The warden positions himself between Rose and the bed, takes hold of her arm, steers her towards the door.

  I was. I wanted.

  No, no, love. Best to come away.

  The warden picks up the suitcase, pushes Rose towards the door, where Mollie watches and waits. Rose steadies herself against the doorframe. The pattern of the Chinese carpet is moving, the pink flowers twisting into each other, the blue roses growing larger and smaller, as though seen through a twisting telescope.

  It’s the blast, the warden says. Sucks all the oxygen out the lungs – I’ve seen it before. Last week – a family of four, all sat at the table and the tea still warm in the pot. Best to come away. Rose feels the warden pinch through to the bone in her arm. Come on, love. Rose stands up straight, takes a deep breath, raises her chin. The warden stops to look at his clipboard.

  Name?

  Rose stares at him, a lid closes over her throat.

  Name? He shakes her arm and her bones rattle against each other like dice shaken in a cup. Listen, love. Can you tell me your name? The warden shakes his head, sighs, looks at the list on the clipboard.

  Miss Violet Whiteley?

  Rose grips the doorframe, so as not to be washed away.

  Are you Miss Violet Whiteley?

  With his dusty, cracked thumb, the warden pushes the top sheet of paper aside and consults another list. Sorry, love. Out of date. Married name. Mrs Violet Bunton?

  Rose wishes that something would stop her doing this but nothing does. The two identity cards are in her pocket. Of course, it’ll only be for a day or two, just while she finds somewhere to live.

  Yes, she says. Yes.

  And the child – Mollie Bunton?

  Yes.

  Darling. Such fun for them both to have the same name, don’t you think? The warden writes on his list and then, with a nod of his head, indicates the bed, whispers so as not to wake the sleepers. Names?

  Rose and Mollie Mayeford, staying in Shackleton Road. I don’t know the address. Mr and Mrs Bostock.

  The warden nods, notes this information. Poor Rose Mayeford. She was always a silly girl with all that anti-colonial talk – equality and the community of nations. The warden takes the suitcase, picks up Mollie and heads towards the stairs. Rose follows him, taking care not to look back. In the hall, the warden makes suggestions about Rest Centres.

  It’s quite all right. No need to worry. My father lives in Worcester and I’m going there. As she speaks, she sees a vista spreading out before here, a new story unrolling. She stands in a shaft of sunlight, at a post office counter, speaks in Violet’s voice, lays the identity cards and the birth certificate out. No, of course there aren’t other papers. A bomb at the back of the house. My husband? Yes, Stanley Bunton. Royal Warwickshire Regiment. Killed on the 28th of May near Dunkirk.

  No point in going to the station, the warden says. But if you can get to Tile Hill you might pick up a train there.

  Thank you.

  Well, good luck, Mrs Bunton, the warden says, before stepping away across the tiled floor, dissolving through the front door. Go to Worcester, put on the fur coat, and the kid shoes, and the rose-pink Fair Isle cardigan. The house shifts – just the slightest movement, but a cloud of plaster dust drops through a crack in the ceiling covering Rose, filling her nose and her throat. Mollie starts to scream. Rose pulls her towards the front door and shakes her to make her stop. Violet wouldn’t put up with screaming like that. But still Mollie screams, so Rose claps her hands over the child’s mouth and nose until she doesn’t have breath to scream any more.

  2

  NOW

  Lara – Brighton, January 2003

  Lara checks her bag – laptop, mobile phone, charger, adaptor, five bound copies of the proposal. It might prove necessary to change the estimate for the flooring but she can explain that to the clients when she gets to Barcelona. Everything must be right. She was responsible for bringing in this client. If the project runs smoothly, Craig will have to promote her – at last. She lights a cigarette, inhales deeply and ask herself if she only continues to smoke because Jay has told her so many times how dangerous it is. The flight leaves from Gatwick at ten and she’s booked a car for eight. Craig will meet her at the airport.

  The morning feels makeshift, perilous. Balanced breathless on an imagined high wire, she wobbles, reminds herself not to look down. During the night she’d been conscious of an electric storm, lightning crackling across the sky and now the air still contains a static fizz. Inanimate objects are not to be trusted. Those copies of the proposal might grow legs and climb out of her bag. Vengeful glasses of red wine might tip themselves onto her white sofas or pale rugs. She can almost hear the blunt buzz and crackle as the hard drive on the laptop suffers a cardiac arrest. Stop. Stop.

  Coffee. She needs a coffee but, of course, it isn’t possible to have a proper coffee because of the builders. Three weeks waiting for the tiles to be sent and, when they arrive, they’re emerald instead of jade. She came back from work on Friday to find the fools had put half of them up. So they’ll just have to take them down. All the kitchen equipment – the espresso machine included – is packed away under the stairs and the kettle is on the floor in the sitting room.

  Breathe, remember to breathe.

  Lara crouches down to make herself an instant coffee, then heads to the bathroom. Opening the door, she smells Jay’s trainers that he’s left on the windowsill – again. She picks them up, marches across the hall, pushes them through the door into the darkness of his bedroom. For a moment she stops still, sure that she can hear someone singing. Has she left a CD player on somewhere? She hasn’t, but there is a sound – a distant melody, a low, mournful moan. Perhaps it’s the wind.

  The doorbell rings. She still needs to dress, do her make-up and pack her bag, but it might be the delivery of her new light fittings for the kitchen. Taking her keys from the hall table, she runs down the stairs. As she opens the front door, a blast of January air, stinging with sea salt, rushes in. Lara ties the belt of her towelling robe and shivers.

  A girl is standing on the doorstep – a young woman. She’s Indian-looking with yards of black hair twisted up onto the top of her head, secured by feathered combs. She wears a purple wool coat stitched with flowers and a shapeless dress, several sizes too big. On her feet, she has jewelled slippers with turned-up toes, like something out of the Arabian Nights. Inside them, her tanned feet are bony and bare. Her face is long and mournful and she wears a jewelled stud in her nose. Behind square glasses, her eyes are stinging and red. Lara wonders how a girl who could be attractive manages to make herself look such a mess.

  Excuse me. I was just wondering – are you Jay’s mum? Is he here?

  The voice is soft and suggests a level of education beyond what Lara expects. The girl looks nervous and her skin is strangely luminous. Lara steps back, feeling that if she stands too close, she might get burnt. The girl’s eyes are peering behind her, into t
he entrance hall. For a brief moment Lara remembers when she was young and peered enviously through windows and open front doors into the bright and comfortable houses of people with real lives. Now she’s on the inside, just as she always wanted to be. She hopes that the girl on the doorstep hungers for her life, her flat, her job, but the look that trembles in the girl’s eyes has nothing to do with envy.

  No, Lara says. No, Jay isn’t here.

  The girl nods and says, I’m sorry to disturb you.

  That’s OK, Lara says, looking at her watch. I can tell Jay you called round – if you give me your name.

  Jemmy, the girl says. I’ll write down my number. She digs around in her rainbow-coloured shoulder bag and pulls out a biro and a pink plastic notebook. The pages of the notebook flicker in the wind as the girl writes. A burger box blows along the street and the pages of an abandoned newspaper flap. The people in the top flat have been told a hundred times not to put their rubbish out until Wednesday but they never listen.

  The girl tears the page out of the book and hands it to Lara.

  It was just – you see – my baby.

  Oh yes, Lara thinks. That explains the baggy dress and the red eyes. An unwanted pregnancy. Poor stupid fool, hardly twenty years old. For a moment the thought crosses Lara’s mind that the baby could be Jay’s but she knows that’s ridiculous because Jay has never shown any interest in girls – or boys.