The Restless Sea, page 37
She is shocked and embarrassed. Tears spring into her eyes. He wants to tell her he’s sorry, to take her in his arms and tell her everything will be all right, but he can’t. All his strength is taken up fighting the image of Burts, frozen, from his mind; all he can feel in his arms is the weight of the body as they struggled to tip it overboard.
At night he is lost in a snowstorm. He can hear the screams of his friends in the water, and he wakes in sweat-drenched sheets. He scrabbles to reach out to them, but they turn into the broken body of Mrs Knightley in the air raid all those years ago. The less he sleeps, the less he feels. He moves around in the day as if he’s still in a dream. His thoughts are fog-bound. ‘Rest,’ says Olivia. ‘It’ll do you good.’ But the more time he spends lying in bed, the worse it becomes.
Olivia and Maggie are out most days, and some nights too. When Jack is alone, the rooms cave in. Sometimes he blinks and it looks as though seawater is dripping down the walls. Anything he eats tastes dry, sticks in his throat. He needs to do something. To get out. He wanders the streets, but he feels exposed. He sits in the dark flat and feels numb. One morning in the tiny bathroom, he takes a razor blade and presses it into the thin flesh of his inner arm. The pain gives him something to focus on. He scores his flesh again. This time the bright beads of blood join up to make a line. The sensation of pain at least means he is alive. But what is the point of being alive when everyone you know is dead?
He misses that strange other-world of snow and ice where life was on hold, where feelings were frozen. He cannot live up to the expectations that Olivia has of him. He is not the person she thinks he is. He has not left his childhood behind. He is a liar and a thief. He suspects she is beginning to realise that. She has waited for him for so long that even though she is disappointed, she will not say. She is hiding something from him.
‘How about some music?’ says Olivia, standing to put a record on. As the gramophone grinds to life, the sound of harmony touches something deep down inside the blackness of Jack’s heart, and he stumbles to his feet, almost knocking the machine off the table in his haste to stop the notes pouring into him.
He is surprised to feel Olivia’s hand grip him firmly. There is a steel in her pale eyes that wasn’t there before he left. ‘This can’t go on,’ she says. ‘You need to stop being so angry.’
‘You don’t know what it’s like.’
‘No, I don’t.’ He is surprised by her forcefulness. ‘Because you won’t talk to me. You won’t tell me what it’s like. But don’t you think I’ve suffered too? Don’t you think I felt that emptiness, that fear, that I was just going through the motions … I’m sorry you’ve been through so much. But you’re wrong to give up. You have to keep going. Think of your future. Think of us …’ Standing there in front of him, she is defiant and gutsy, the girl he met in Scotland.
She takes his hand. ‘Come with me,’ she says.
‘Where?’
‘You’ll see.’
Reluctantly he follows her to the bus stop. They head east, part of a steady stream of buses and cars, pedestrians and cyclists. They ignore the holes where buildings used to be, the barrage balloons that still swim among the clouds above them. They cross the river, glistening like the rain on the wheel arches of a taxi that slides past.
Eventually, Olivia leads him off the bus and they walk on the dark, damp pavements until they come to a large white building. ‘Where are we?’ says Jack.
‘The Dreadnought Hospital,’ says Olivia, glancing up at the imposing facade.
He shakes his head. ‘No.’ He digs his nails into his left arm.
‘You’ve got to,’ she says. ‘We should have done this ages ago.’
He shakes his head again.
‘I told him you would come.’
‘You’ve seen him?’
‘Of course. He’s your best friend.’
Jack digs his nails in harder, feeling for the bumps of his scars. He is not ready for this.
‘Come on,’ she says, opening the door and resting her hand on his shoulder. He shrugs the hand off. ‘You need to do this.’
Jack takes a deep breath. He looks across at Olivia, the determined line of her mouth, the expectant raised eyebrow. He wonders when he stopped being the protector and became the protected. ‘I’ll go. But you stay here.’ He needs to do this alone.
The seafarers’ hospital is in the grounds of the Naval College at Greenwich, a grand old building surrounded by neatly manicured gardens, where invalids sit on wooden benches beneath stately columns. Jack makes his way inside. A nurse leads him along the hushed, spotless corridor. Their footsteps echo in the silence. The beds in the ward are arranged in neat rows. The windows are open, and clean, white curtains flutter in a gentle breeze. It could not be more different to the Bolnitsa. The nurse ushers him forwards and points. Jack’s eyes scan the row of beds, searching for his friend. A man is waving vigorously at him; ‘Jack!’ he is saying, and Jack can’t believe this is Carl. He looks well-fed and sleek, and his hair is cropped short like it used to be. He is as strong and healthy as when they worked the docks together. Except that he can’t get out of the bed.
Jack forces himself to walk across the ward. Carl’s bed is tucked in, and the soft blanket lies flat beneath the thigh where his leg should be. Here, in the reality of London, in their world, the injury is somehow so much worse.
‘At last,’ says Carl, grinning and sticking out his broad arm. He grips Jack’s hand and pulls Jack towards him, rising up to pat Jack on the back. ‘This is Jack, everyone,’ he adds, addressing the rest of the men on the ward. ‘The man who saved my life.’
The men murmur their greetings, smiling as if they had no cares in the world, but Jack can see that each one of them is damaged. He knows that beneath their smiles lies turmoil and anxiety, the same as his own. For that reason, he barely dares look Carl in the eye. He does not want to see the hurt that must rage there.
Jack bows his head. Carl leans over. ‘Can you believe we both survived such a pounding?’ Jack pulls his sleeves down to hide his scars. Carl squeezes Jack’s shoulder. ‘Look at me,’ he says. But Jack cannot. ‘Come on. It’s all right. It’s me.’
Jack forces himself to look up. His friend’s eyes stare back, not haunted, not scared, not full of the images he expected to see, but bright and concerned – the same eyes that Jack remembers from school. Carl is unchanged. ‘I’ve been waiting a long time to thank you,’ he says. ‘Where have you been?’
‘I don’t know. I had a lot to sort out.’
‘Too much to come and see your best mate who you snatched from the jaws of death?’
Jack looks away. ‘It was you that pulled me out of the water …’
‘And I’d do the same again tomorrow.’
‘But … Your leg …’
‘I’d rather lose my leg than my life.’
‘What about all the others? Si and David? The Pluckston went down, you know. And Burts and Mart …’
‘You can’t save everyone, Jack. You’ve got to say your goodbyes and move on.’
Jack swallows. His throat is dry. Carl shifts a bit. ‘Look at this ward,’ he says. ‘What do you see?’
Jack looks up and down the ward properly this time. He sees the recovering men, the lost limbs and the bandages, the burns and the wounds. ‘You’re not looking at it properly,’ says Carl. ‘You see a room full of damaged men. But it’s not. It’s a room full of survivors. And you’re one of them.’
‘Why did I survive? I don’t deserve it.’
‘That’s the most stupid thing I ever heard you say. Who’s to say who deserves it or not? You deserve it just as much as the next man.’
Forgiveness is a soothing balm on Jack’s troubled mind. ‘When did you become so wise?’
‘I’ve had a lot of time to think.’
‘I’d have given up.’
‘I’ve never known you to give up on anything. Make a bad decision sometimes, sure, but give up? That’s not the Jack I grew up with.’
‘It’s hard …’
‘You think I don’t know that? But we’ll be fine. We have to be. We owe it to the others. You just need a bit of self-belief.’
‘Someone else said that to me …’
‘So two of us might have a point?’
Jack leans back in his chair and watches his old friend.
Carl smiles at him. ‘You’ve come a long way, Jack. We both have.’
They sit for a moment, listening to the sounds of the other men talking quietly among themselves, playing cards and laughing. Jack feels a peace descend on him. ‘I’ve been horrible to Olivia,’ he says.
‘You’re an idiot, then.’
‘She tried to find Betsy.’
‘I know. She’s visited me most days since her mate wrote and told her that we made it out of there. She’s a gutsy girl, that one.’
Jack nods, thinking of how horrible he’s been.
‘Why don’t you go to Drummond Road?’
‘I already have.’
‘That was ages ago. Try again. Maybe Betsy’s been back knocking on doors too? You never know. There’s no harm in giving it another go, and I know Olivia wants to see where you grew up.’
‘I’m not sure I want her to.’
‘Give the girl a break – she’s stuck it out with you so far.’
‘God knows why …’
‘Come on, mate. Keep looking for the silver linings. Bet you thought I could never walk again?’
‘Not unless you’ve met blooming Jesus …’
‘Watch this.’ Carl swings himself upright and reaches down beside the bed. He straps the prosthetic leg to his stump, and, balancing himself against the bedhead, he stands and starts to walk between the row of beds.
Jack doesn’t know what to say. He feels a grin break across his face. Carl returns to the bed with a hop and a jump – showing off his new skills. ‘Once I get the hang of it,’ he says, ‘no one’ll know it’s not real. I’ll be able to walk, work – find myself a wife!’
And Jack finds himself laughing with his best friend, in the way they used to laugh down at Cherry Garden Pier.
Olivia is waiting for him outside, chewing her lip anxiously. They catch another bus to Bermondsey. It is not far, and they sit in silence, their ears filled with the sound of traffic after rain, and the shouts from streets busy with people. They pass a group of children pushing a salvage cart packed with old wellies, jagged timber, and a battered pram. Jack watches his old neighbourhood roll by, the smell of wet pavement filling his nostrils, reminding him of days spent on the street. Carl is right. They have come so far. He is no longer a boy of the streets. He is a man of the sea. He puts out a hand and tucks Olivia’s hair behind her ears.
She smiles across at him. ‘Come on,’ he says.
When they have got off the bus, he pulls her close, planting a kiss on her forehead. ‘Forgive me,’ he says. ‘It’s been a rough few weeks and I’ve been an idiot.’
‘I could forgive you anything when you’re like this,’ she says.
They walk along the edge of the park. The anti-aircraft regiments and the tethered barrage balloons still keep watch over the lake he once swam in and the grass he played football on. Even the horse chestnut tree is the same, its naked winter branches proud, regal. He wonders if children still vie for its best conkers in the autumn.
The rubble of his home has been cleared, and they move between the exposed walls where lines of paint mark where the first floor and the staircase used to be. The blackened chimney is vivid against the glowering sky. They reach the backyard and look out across rows of identical yards. Someone has been busy expanding the vegetable plot so that it covers every inch of space, the fine soil tilled and ready for spring seeds. Two girls are playing on the low brick wall on one side. Behind them, lines of washing flap in the breeze. One is sitting, picking her nose, while the other stands, balancing on the wall next to her, pointing her toes. She is wearing a pair of pink satin ballet shoes. ‘What you doing here?’ she asks.
‘I don’t know,’ says Jack, suddenly self-conscious, feeling like a trespasser in his own home.
Olivia squeezes his hand. ‘We’re looking for clues,’ she says.
‘Clues for what?’
‘For where someone might be.’
‘Who?’
‘This man’s sister.’
‘What’s ’er name?’
‘Betsy,’ says Jack. ‘Betsy Sullivan.’
‘Never ’eard of ’er.’
‘The warden might know,’ ventures the girl who is sitting. ‘My mum says he knows everything.’
‘Are they still at the school?’ says Jack.
She nods.
‘It’s worth a try,’ says Olivia.
Together they walk back to the pavement, leaving the girls to carry on pointing their toes and swinging their legs against the wall.
Jack’s old school is exactly the same as he remembers it – sandbags and stretchers, and, incredibly, there is the ARP warden, the same one who was always on their case, his face more lined and his grey hair thinner. To Jack’s relief, there is no flicker of recognition in the old man’s eyes. ‘Can I help you?’ he says. Jack remembers guiltily how they would do anything to avoid this man. He remembers the fight. He remembers the warden helping his mother. He feels ashamed and stares at his feet, his mouth thick with words that won’t come.
Olivia takes control. ‘We’re looking for someone,’ she says. ‘We thought you might have known her. Betsy Sullivan? From Drummond Road.’
The man thinks for a moment, then starts to shake his head slowly as if trying to clear a fog from his mind. Jack is about to turn on his heel, but then the man says, ‘I remember the Sullivans. What a sorry business. Can’t remember the kids’ names, but I know there was two boys and a little girl. The older boy went to France with the dad. The pair of them never made it back.’
‘That’s right …’
The man continues: ‘The daughter was a wild little thing. Just like the other brother. A right pair of scallywags. Always in trouble …’
Olivia coughs into her hand and indicates Jack’s bowed head. The warden stops and peers more closely. ‘You’re not …?’
Jack looks up and nods.
‘Well I never,’ says the warden. ‘I always wondered what happened to you. You needed a fatherly clip around the ear …’ But he smiles kindly. ‘It’s a tough neighbourhood. You might not believe it, but I was young once.’
‘I heard what happened to my mother …’ says Jack.
The man’s brow creases apologetically. ‘There was nothing anyone could have done. Lucky the pair of you were out of it.’
‘You mean Betsy wasn’t there?’
‘Oh no. Definitely not.’
‘How can you be sure?’
‘I pulled the body out. She was all alone. Besides, I’ve seen your sister since then.’
‘Really?’ Jack’s voice is high, excited. Olivia is smiling and gripping his shaking hand. ‘When? Where?’
‘It was a while back. After your mum … She was with that no-good lad you used to hang out with. Now that one … he’s a proper bad egg …’
‘You mean Stoog?’
‘Not sure of his name. Tall, skinny fellow. Bundle of nervous energy waiting to explode … Family still live in Snowsfields …’
But Jack is barely listening. He is pulling Olivia along the street and shouting ‘thank you’ over his shoulder.
They walk the couple of miles to the slum area that Stoog grew up in. The houses are practically piled on top of each other, a mixture of brick and wood, tile and muck, wonky chimneys and broken roofs. It’s difficult to tell whether this is because of the bombs, or just dilapidation – many were like this before the Luftwaffe came for them. Jack leads Olivia through the narrow, dark alleys to one of the many houses with rags across their broken windows, past boys shovelling bricks and sifting through dust. He raps at the Stoogleys’ door. A girl with her hair tied in a scarf answers.
‘Agnes?’
‘Jack!’ Her haggard face lights up for a moment. ‘Look at you. So grown up …’ But her joy turns to worry. ‘What do you want?’ she whispers.
‘Is Stoog here?’
‘He hasn’t lived here for a good while now.’
‘Is he away fighting?’
She shakes her head.
‘Who is it?’ shouts a woman’s voice from inside.
‘No one, Mum,’ says Agnes over her shoulder. Then she whispers at Jack. ‘You’d better go. You don’t want to have anything to do with Stoog. He’s my own brother, and I can’t bear the sight of him …’
Jack puts his hand out to stop her closing the door. ‘But do you know if he’s seen Betsy? Have you seen her? Is she alive?’
Agnes’s face pales. A large woman who must once have been even larger shambles out of the darkness of the corridor. Her skin is a washed-out grey and seems to hang in pleats from her body; her features have sunk into the folds of her face. ‘Who’s this?’ she says, the cigarette in her mouth moving up and down with the words.
‘It’s Jack, Mum. Jack Sullivan. You remember?’
The woman peers at him with gimlet eyes. ‘Jack Sullivan? What you doing here? Thought you was dead. So did your poor mother.’
Jack grits his teeth. ‘I’m looking for Betsy.’
‘It’s Stoog you want to ask about that.’
‘So where is he?’
‘Haven’t heard from him for months. Tight little bastard. Don’t know what’s wrong with you lot, abandoning the women that brought you into this world …’
Jack tenses. He feels the old familiar anger simmering in his bones.
Olivia cuts in: ‘Is there a forwarding address?’
The older woman starts to tremble, her laughter turning into a phlegmy cough that takes a long time to settle. Agnes looks at her feet. ‘Forwarding address?’ says the woman, still laughing. ‘Stoog ain’t the kind to receive letters, ma’am.’
