The Buried Circle - Jenni Mills [152]
On the right, the dark pinnacle of Christchurch spire pierced the silver sky: the Old Lady on the Hill, the locals call it. Behind the churchyard lay the overgrown gardens of the Lawn, a crumbling mansion house where the Goddard family used to live. It had been empty for years, though there was a rumour it was to be requisitioned to billet troops. I turned round and checked behind us. A couple of soldier boys were disappearing round the corner a long way off, but no one else was around as we took the fork that was Drove Road.
Nell’s lodgings were about halfway up. Her landlady made a fuss of me, wanted to know all about my family. Devizes, eh: full of soldiers now, was it? Was my young man one of them?
Every time someone asked me if I had a young man, I felt a sense of dread. It was as if denying Davey would be condemning him to death. And here he was, arriving in Wiltshire any day now, and no doubt planning to drive over to see me, soon as he could find petrol for his car. How was I going to explain to him that the night after the Starfish had been a mistake and could never be repeated?
No, I said. He’s not a soldier, he’s in the RAE A navigator.
Though she’s got a pilot officer after her too, said Nell, with a wink.
The landlady’s husband came in from his shift, tired, not saying much. He worked on the railways, and went to get washed while the landlady and Nell took me upstairs to show me the room. The landlady was especial proud of the alarm clock, Canadian made, same as they’d issued to all the railwaymen: you’d have it, she said, he sleeps so light, these days, neither him nor me needs it. The room was comfortable, spacious, with a double wardrobe and a bay window, but I knew immediately I wouldn’t take it.
They asked me to stop for supper, and I looked at my watch and said, no, I’d better be going, old Mervyn was a Tartar for punctuality.
On the way back down Drove Road I was cursing myself for all kinds of fool, because it had been a good room, better than my little attic in Avebury. I could still take it. I hadn’t told them I wouldn’t. But after bumping into Mr Cromley earlier I’d been sure, against all sense, if I’d pulled back the blackout material on that window, instead of their vegetable patch and an Anderson shelter at the end of the garden there’d be a row of tombstones. I couldn’t shake the sickening memory of the bay-windowed house with the cemetery behind, and a voice that said, Spit. Lick my finger.
I was nearly at the end of the road when the siren started up. Could’ve gone back to Nell’s landlady’s house easy, and asked to crowd with them into their damp little shelter. They’d be expecting me to dash back, Nell’s hospitable landlady hovering uneasily at the kitchen door while her husband urged her to hurry up, the bombers weren’t going to wait for them to stroll at their leisure to the bottom of the garden.
But if I went back I’d be late for fire watch.
Mervyn wouldn’t mind. He’d have worried, but he’d be happy on his own. He’d enjoy pressing one of the medical students into service.
I hesitated, almost turned. But, no, it’d be letting him down. It wasn’t that far. If I ran, I’d be at the hospital in a jiff.
I started to leg it down the road, hoping I wouldn’t see the shape of a Heinkel or a Junkers crossing the silvery sky towards the spire of Christchurch. The carry-case for my gas mask was banging against my hip, and I realized I’d forgotten to give Nell’s landlady the eggs in it. Probably scrambled by now. I wasn’t scared. I knew I could make it back easy. The street was familiar, and empty: there was only me, and the banshee wail of the siren, no thunder yet of engines in