The Restless Sea, page 29
Charlie has sent Olivia his congratulations and a message that he has a forty-eight-hour pass and would she like to go out to dinner with some friends of his. He has been such a rock that she does not want to turn him down, and besides, now the awkwardness is a thing of the past, she is looking forward to the company of an old friend. When he arrives at the flat, Gladys and Julia giggle like schoolgirls, while Olivia shakes her head and tells them to behave. She is always a little surprised by the effect he has on other people, even though she can see he is handsome, in a boy scout kind of way.
He follows her up to the kitchen and she pours him a drink. Gladys and Julia are getting ready to go out in the other rooms, and Olivia has no choice but to do her make-up in the kitchen while Charlie drinks whisky out of a teacup. ‘Supper at the Empire Hotel with Spencer and Alice Stafford,’ he says. ‘He’s an old friend of mine from school.’
‘Is he Fleet Air Arm?’
‘God no. Something to do with politics. But I thought we could both do with some cheering up. And I couldn’t think of anyone else to ask.’
‘Thanks, I think.’
He smiles and then frowns, his green eyes seeking hers. ‘They did find more survivors the other day,’ he says. ‘But no Jack Sullivan.’
She knows how unlikely it now is that Jack has survived, but it still tears at her insides. She looks back at Charlie, forcing her voice to be cheerful. ‘Let’s forget that for now,’ she says. She can see what an effort he has made to glean any information for her. She knows he is trying to make amends, and she doesn’t blame him any more: her family would no more approve of Jack whether he was a vicar or a murderer. ‘Let’s not talk about it today,’ she says. ‘Let’s just have fun.’
She smooths her uniform, for once relishing being in a skirt again, feeling feminine. She has unpicked and reworked the stitching so that it looks positively tailored. Charlie watches her.
‘Not exactly glamorous, is it?’ she says, suddenly self-conscious, smoothing her shirt into her skirt, hoping there is no outward sign of the child growing inside her.
‘You look better,’ he says. ‘Healthier.’
She blushes, painfully aware of the reason for this.
‘I still can’t get used to you girls in uniform,’ he says. ‘Let’s hope you’re not swearing and spitting like men next …’
Olivia laughs and tips her make-up bag on to the table, rooting about for the tiny stump of lipstick that she has left. Too late, she realises that something else has fallen out at the same time.
‘What’s that?’ says Charlie, reaching across to pick up the watch.
She freezes, not sure what to say.
‘It looks German? Where on earth did you get it?’
‘I … I found it,’ she says.
He stares at her, shaking his head slowly as realisation dawns. ‘The dinghy?’ he says in a whisper.
She nods.
‘But we talked about it. Why didn’t you tell me …?’
‘It was too late by then. He’d gone …’
He puts the watch down on the table and looks at it in disbelief from between his fingers. ‘God,’ he says. ‘That was bloody stupid of you. You could have been taken away.’
‘I know.’ Her voice is small, ashamed.
‘What possessed you?’
‘I’m not sure. I was … lonely. He seemed so vulnerable.’
‘Bloody hell.’ He smooths his hair back with both hands, then wipes his hands down his face. ‘I don’t know what to do. I should report this.’
He is silent for a while. Then he rubs at his face again, shakes his head as if he can’t believe it. ‘Bloody Germans.’
‘He reminded me of you. You’re the same age …’
Charlie looks at her as though she is a stranger. ‘He could have gone on to spy. To kill our own people. Jesus. He could have …’
‘He didn’t. He wouldn’t. I know he wouldn’t. He had a dog. He wanted to be an architect. He was … nice.’
‘Nice!’
She feels wretched. He paces up and down the tiny kitchen. Then he sighs, straightens his shoulders. ‘Don’t look so miserable,’ he says. ‘It’s done now. Hopefully he’s dead. Or back in Germany, and not … God … spying or something … And let’s pray he’s not languishing in a cell somewhere while MI5 try to get him to cough up the name of whoever helped him …’
‘What would they do to me?’
‘Hang you?’
‘Oh, Charlie.’
‘Look,’ he says. ‘It’s not going to come to that. Let me take it. If anyone asks, you don’t know anything about it. It’s rather a nice watch, actually. Quite a trophy. And it still works …’ He twists his arm so the watch catches the light. ‘This way, if the truth ever does come to light, I can counteract by saying I found the watch, and you’re innocent …’
‘You can’t do that.’
‘I don’t want to hear any more about it. We’d better get going.’
‘But …’
He holds up his hand. ‘Not to be mentioned again.’
The hotel is famously built of thick concrete, supposedly able to withstand anything – including Nazi bombs. It could not be more different to the kind of accommodation they have both grown used to, with its ornate columns and drooping chandeliers, the intricate rugs and the heavy, pelmetted curtains. The waiters are as smart as the guests, who include decorated officers of all military persuasions, politicians, and even well-known entertainers, all carrying on as if there were no sandbags or craters or people queuing for onions just yards from the imposing front doors. As they walk through the foyer, Olivia feels completely out of place. Charlie seems to sense it and puts out his elbow so she can link her arm through his. She is glad of the support. The other women waft through the rooms, their shoes clipping crisply across the marble floor.
Charlie and Olivia are escorted to a table where the Staffords are already seated. Charlie introduces Olivia as Spencer stands, bowing slightly and smiling at her. He is dressed in a dinner jacket. ‘Charmed,’ he says, taking her hand in his and pressing his lips to it. ‘I visited Stoke Hall once. Shooting with my father years ago.’
‘I’m sorry. I don’t remember.’
He laughs. He has neat little teeth and a hint of puffiness around his chin. ‘I wouldn’t expect you to. I must have been about eight. I do remember it’s a fabulous place, though. So sorry to hear it’s been requisitioned. We managed to hold on to ours. I should think your gardens are in a dreadful state.’
‘I think my parents offered …’
‘Still. Won’t take long to fix it all up again once this business is all over … Now. This is my wife, Alice,’ he says, indicating the woman seated at the table. Alice’s earrings sparkle and flash beneath her immaculate hair as she inclines her head in greeting.
Charlie pulls out Olivia’s chair, and she sits, taking in the spotless lines of gleaming silver cutlery.
‘You could have made a bit more of an effort, old boy,’ says Spencer to Charlie. ‘Uniforms are so bloody dreary.’
‘And a dinner jacket isn’t?’ says Charlie.
‘I think it’s rather charming,’ says Alice, fingering her necklace and letting her eyes roam over Olivia’s body.
‘Maybe you should join,’ says Olivia, forcing a smile while she shrivels inside.
‘Join what?’ says Spencer. ‘Are you a WAAF or a FANY?’
‘Neither,’ says Olivia. ‘I’m a Wren.’
‘Ah. A Jenny Wren. How lovely.’ He addresses his wife: ‘I don’t know why you don’t join up. You’d look very fetching in that.’
‘I’m not sure I’ve got the figure for it,’ says Alice. ‘Suits the more boyish. No offence,’ she adds, putting a gloved hand over her mouth.
‘Champagne?’ Spencer nods at the hovering waiter, who pours the golden liquid into their glasses, where it fizzes and bubbles enticingly.
The food is exquisite, and there seems to be an endless supply of it. The decor is fabulous, the furnishings so sumptuous that they seem unreal. Spencer advises the Ministry of Labour. His is a world of politics and money, something that might once have been familiar to Olivia, a fact that makes it all the more alien to her now.
Olivia twists the stiff, starched napkin beneath the table. She may feel out of place but she won’t show it. Her palms are sticky and she longs to loosen her collar. She takes a deep breath and tries to engage in the conversation among the clinking crystal and chatter from the other diners, sipping slowly at the champagne, shaking her head when the waiter tries to top up her glass. Then suddenly, before the main course is served, and while Spencer is droning on about the National Service Act and reserved occupations and Alice is delicately sipping her wine, Charlie leans sideways, his shoulder bumping against hers, and whispers, ‘Fancy going somewhere else?’
She looks at him, unsure whether he is serious. But his eyes are shining as brightly as Alice’s jewels, and one of his eyebrows is raised. She grins. ‘Most definitely,’ she says, pushing herself away from the crisp white tablecloth, and leaving her napkin crumpled on the plush velvet chair. Charlie laughs too and holds out his arm as their hosts look up at them, their mouths half open. Then they turn and race for the doors, and out into the safety of the darkness of London at night.
It is not far to walk to Soho. Charlie and Olivia giggle most of the way, remembering their hosts’ surprised expressions. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I hadn’t realised what a bore Spencer was. He was quite a laugh at school.’
‘I wonder if it’s us or them who have changed?’ says Olivia.
Eddie’s Bar is full of familiar faces and uniforms. Charlie buys Olivia a gin cocktail and she relaxes into the drink and the music and the dancing. She has never seen Charlie like this: so gregarious. But then, she has never really spent time with him among other people. Everyone wants to talk to him, or to dance with him, or to buy him a drink, and all the time he is the perfect escort, making sure she is topped up, and introducing her to anyone she doesn’t know. She feels a lightness that she has not felt in a long time; for once, she is not painting on a brave face or distracting herself: she is actually enjoying herself.
She stretches out her legs, feeling the warmth of the room wash over her. For a moment she cannot locate Charlie in the dimly lit bar. Then she spots him talking to some women in the shadows on the far side. They are conspicuous by their lack of uniform, displaying legs encased in stockings, and heavily painted faces. They fawn over Charlie, all talking at once, reaching out to touch his stripes, giggling loudly enough for her to hear. Charlie spots her and motions that he’ll be a moment. She colours, embarrassed that she could be so naïve. Charlie is a young man, and of course he has needs. When he makes it back to the table, he follows her eyes and reddens too, suddenly embarrassed. ‘I haven’t …’ he says.
‘Oh no!’ says Olivia. ‘Don’t worry. I don’t mind. I mean, what you get up to is your own business …’
‘I just help when I can …’
‘Really. No need to explain.’
‘This was the last place I came to with Mole and the others …’
She holds up her hand. Charlie is saved from further explanation by a couple of friends who come up and thump him on the shoulder. He greets them enthusiastically and introduces Olivia.
They are officers from a battleship that has just returned from operations in the Channel. ‘We could have done with your lot at Dieppe,’ says the shorter of the men.
‘I heard,’ says Charlie. ‘What a bloody disaster.’
The other man nods. ‘Pretty bad for us,’ he says. ‘Terrible for the Canadians. They took a real hammering.’
‘So did the RAF. It was almost out of range for them.’
‘That’s why we could have done with you.’
‘Not up to us to make the decisions.’
‘That new Commando unit lost a lot of men.’
The men sigh, staring at the liquid in their glasses as it catches the light.
‘Must have been quite some fight,’ says Charlie.
The shorter man nods. ‘Two Victoria Crosses awarded.’
Olivia senses a profound change in Charlie, something so sad that she almost gasps. But it is only for a moment, and then he raises his glass above his head. ‘Let’s drink to them all,’ he says. ‘To those on land and sea and in the air. To His Majesty’s armed forces and to all our Allies, wherever they may be. And to the men of the Merchant Navy.’
He nods at Olivia, and she stands too, appreciating the toast to Jack, and the four of them hold their glasses aloft, before the men down their drinks in one and she takes a sip of her own. She looks away. No wonder these men enjoy themselves when they can. Any one of them might be an empty chair next week.
The energy seems to have gone from Charlie after that, and when a group of friends say they’re heading back in the same direction, Olivia is relieved that she can go home with them. Charlie offers to escort her, but the offer is half-hearted, and Olivia says, ‘You stay. I’ll be fine.’
‘If you’re sure …’ he says. ‘I wouldn’t mind another drink.’
As Olivia leaves the bar, she can’t help noticing that Charlie is making his way back towards the bawdy girls in the corner. She feels a flash of anger: why is it all right for him to indulge his needs when it is not for her? She watches as he is led to the dance floor by a young dark-haired girl. They pull each other close and swing away into the crowd, another couple clinging to each other in the shadows.
The officers’ course at Greenwich is meant to instil some of the history, dignity, and traditions of the Royal Navy into its recruits. Olivia dines in the Painted Hall beneath the swirling paintings and tall columns and gold leaf as the sounds of her fellow Wrens echo around her. She learns her compass points and how to navigate, plot a course, salute. On the wide, twisting Thames, downriver from the shattered docks, they practise things that are second nature to her already – transferring people from ship to shore, delivering mail, going on board, alongside – while manners and respect are drilled into them on land.
Today is a day of multiple celebrations: not only have they passed their exams, and are now commissioned officers, but it is also Gladys’s wedding. It is meant to be a day for laughter, a day to push away dark thoughts. Olivia slowly buttons her shirt, gazing at herself in the mirror. It’s been a long time since she wore anything other than this uniform. She cannot remember when she last wore a dress. Is it really not since the dance at Loch Ewe? The memory rips a hole in her happiness: Jack is a loss that will always be there, a shadow in her heart. She places her hands on her stomach, revelling in the secret that she holds within. She will have to tell her parents soon, but for now she pushes the thought from her mind.
Gladys is the only member of the wedding party not in a uniform. She has insisted that, for today, she will be the girl she was before the war. She is wearing a blue dress – clothes coupons don’t stretch to wedding dresses. It doesn’t put anyone off marriage, though. Hundreds of couples are hurriedly tying the knot while on leave, as if getting hitched will keep each of them alive until they next meet.
There are not many guests at the church: Gladys and William’s parents, Julia, and Maggie has made it from Southampton. Olivia is pleased to see that Charlie is there too, waving her over into the space next to him on the hard pew. It is the first time she has seen him since they left Spencer and Alice at the hotel dinner a couple of weeks ago.
The marriage service is over in a flash. The vicar has a queue of couples to fit in. Outside, they throw confetti. It flutters to the ground to be trodden into the stony path like Olivia’s hopes and dreams. They stop at the church gate, while Gladys’s father takes a photograph. Behind the happy couple, the church bells remain silent, as they have throughout the war, only to be rung if there’s an invasion.
Charlie puts a solid arm around her shoulder. ‘Cheer up,’ he says. ‘You’ve got to make the most of the good days.’
He is right: it is easy to let the sadness overwhelm you. She glances at Gladys, looking so radiant, and William, so proud. Maggie is hugging Olivia’s other arm tightly, and Julia is dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief, and somewhere in a tree a collared dove is cooing as if it’s just a normal, peaceful day. She knows they are the lucky ones: lucky to be here; lucky to be alive.
Gladys and William have opted for a quiet affair afterwards at Eddie’s, before their honeymoon, a night in a hotel down the road; they are both back on duty tomorrow. Faces Olivia recognises swim in and out of the darkness. The parties have grown increasingly frenetic with the influx of American soldiers, who splash more money around as well as the chewing gum, nylons, and Coca-Cola. There are handsome, smiling GIs everywhere, fresh-faced and cocky, so different to the quieter British men, who have been burnt out by years at war.
Maggie is in her element, dancing with anyone who asks, but her eyes are set on one man. She takes Olivia aside, her wide smile leaving a glossy mark on the glass as she sips. ‘Would you mind if I … You know …’ she says, nodding her head in Charlie’s direction.
It takes Olivia a moment to understand what she means. She stutters for a second before regaining her composure. ‘Of course,’ she says. ‘Why would I mind?’
Maggie shrugs. ‘I thought you two had history?’
‘Not that kind of history,’ says Olivia.
Maggie leans forward and kisses Olivia’s cheek. ‘I’m so glad,’ she says. ‘I think he might be The One.’
‘I thought you weren’t the settling down type?’
Maggie rolls her eyes. ‘We all grow up, Olivia,’ she says. ‘Coming to dance?’
Olivia shakes her head. She watches as Maggie whispers something in Charlie’s ear and they swing each other around the floor. She surveys the room – it is hard to believe that these frivolous, frenzied people will be behind their desks or in their cockpits or decoding messages or marching out in only a few hours.
Later, Maggie stands in a group next to Charlie, but talking to a soldier on her other side. Charlie motions to Olivia to join them, but she shakes her head, so he makes his way over to the table.
