Early Bird, my teacher at Bolsbrooke Elementary School, taught us all in English grammar that an apostrophe is a mark to show where something is missing. And that was how I’d always seen Bernard’s father, Arthur: a human apostrophe. He was there but only to show us that something precious had gone astray. When Bernard said he was being posted overseas I asked him who was going to look after his father now. A bewildered expression was all I got to tell me that I was.
Arthur never spoke. He shook his head, he nodded, he grunted, he sighed, he even tutted. But no word came through his lips – not even his sneeze would accidentally say, ‘A tissue.’ But gradually I came to notice his eyebrows. Two dark, thick, bushy lines roving over his forehead. I forgot about waiting for his lips to move and started reading those hairy brows instead. They were more expressive than Bernard’s mouth had ever been. Two upward flicks and he was asking if I’d like a cup of tea. One up one down, and he wanted to know if I was sure.
And it didn’t take me long to appreciate that Arthur was a magician. Out in the garden all day he could pull carrots, cabbages, potatoes, turnips, swedes, parsnips out of rubble and stone. One day I came home to find him holding up an onion for me. Big as a ball, a perfect specimen, its skin golden brown and crackling. He laughed when I asked, ‘Where in heaven’s name did you get that?’ Then slowly he revealed another one in his other hand. What wonderful things – I could have gone into the street and sold them for twenty guineas each. No one had seen an onion for months. But Arthur had two. And it was him that lovingly cooked me the sausage and mash with onion gravy.
He would queue for hours for food. Lines and lines and lines of women and then Arthur – this ageing gentleman trussed up in his gaberdine with his little cloth bag – standing still and silent as a monument to patience. They’d let him in the queue in front of them sometimes, the women: they felt sorry for him just like I once did. He looked broken, trembling at the slightest noise, his face changing from plain-day to wild and hunted at the drop of a pin. But he wasn’t. Without Bernard fussing about him, pulling, coaxing, he began to unfurl as sure as a flower that finally feels the sun when the tree is gone. And in the evenings the rotten beggar always beat me at Monopoly. His metal boot silently hoarding the board until the only course of action left to me was to declare war, sound a siren, then bomb all his blinking hotels and houses to bits.
‘None of your rubbish.’ That was how Franny, who worked with me at the rest centre, described them. ‘Flyers. 103 Squadron. Lancasters. God’s honest truth. Go on, Queenie, they deserve a bit of home comfort.’ Three officers on leave for a couple of days in London before going back on active duty at their airbase in Lincolnshire. ‘It’s a favour to me, really. And to my sister, who’s very keen on Kip. Go on. Just for a couple of days. I know you’ve got the room.’
If Bernard had still been there it would have been a stony no, bomber crew or no bomber crew. Arthur was so amazed that I asked his permission, his face went blank as white bread. Then one ponderous eyebrow lifted before he nodded, yes.
The tea was too weak – both officers looked down at their cups distrusting, not wanting to swallow what they had in their mouths. They were the last leaves we had left and, in all honesty, I had used them before. I hoped this third officer was going to turn up before the pot got cold otherwise I’d have nothing to give him except some boiled-up dandelion leaves, which Arthur, and only Arthur, thought a refreshing alternative drink. The redheaded officer had skin so pale it looked to be dusted with flour. Still a boy, he giggled nervously before and after anything he said. He introduced himself as Walter but said everyone called him Ginger. I didn’t ask why. But I did ask the other one why everyone called him Kip.
‘Because it’s my name,’ he said. ‘It’s short for Kipling.’ He was dark with a thick moustache and a deep blue chin, a growth of beard just itching to get out. He went on to explain, while carefully placing his untouched cup on the table, that his mother was an ardent admirer of Kipling. ‘So it could have been worse – she was also fond of Brontë and Trollope.’
‘Right . . .’ I said, and was just going to ask what happened to the other chap when there were three sharp knocks at the door.
‘Ah, there’s the other member of our party,’ Kip said.
The RAF man’s hand was raised almost in salute, ready to knock at the door once more. But that wasn’t the first thing I noticed. I was lost in Africa again at the Empire Exhibition, a little girl in a white organza frock with blood rising in my cheeks turning me red. He was coloured.
‘Are you Mrs Bligh? Have I got the right number? Only I try three houses and they tell me this the right one.’ He looked up the street again. ‘I am Sergeant Roberts,’ he said. His face awakened to smile a grin so broad and white you could have projected a film on it. ‘You have Ginger and Kip here? You expecting me? May I come in?’
Arthur didn’t even try to hide his surprise, his eyebrows rose so startled they got lost in his hair. I thought I was going to have to shake him as Kip said, ‘Michael Roberts – well, well, well, late as usual.’
A direct hit from a fifty-tonner, that was what it sounded like. The house was rumbling and on the landing I was faced with a big blue bottom sliding towards me down the banister. It landed with a painful thump against the newel post because another of the officers had followed on behind and slid into his head. They were both laughing. It was Ginger who fell off on to the floor rubbing his skull. The coloured one, Michael, was jumping down the stairs three at a time. He leap-frogged over Ginger’s head shouting, ‘I win me bet. Stairs are quicker, boys. Come on, pay up.’ I swear he flew off the last step, landing right in front of me then tripping. I put my hand out to steady him. Before I knew it he was holding me up, one arm on mine, the other round my waist saying, ‘Mrs Bligh, please forgive me. So sorry.’
On hearing my name Ginger began straightening himself while Kip, doing the same, said, ‘Ah, Mrs Bligh, just testing out your banisters. Very strong.’ He hit it with a fist, miming ‘ouch’.
I felt so old standing there in my ugly headscarf and my apron, a half-peeled potato in my hand, with these three young men, my age, shuffling about in front of me trying to stifle their giggles like I was their scolding mum. I used to lark once. ‘Beardy, beardy, you’re barmy – can’t you join the army?’ But the pity was I couldn’t remember when I last choked back the giggles or jumped steps three at a time.
‘We needed to have a word, Mrs Bligh,’ Kip began, trying to be more sober. ‘We may be late coming back. Will that matter?’
‘No, Arthur can let you in. I’ll tell him.’
‘Thank you, that’s very kind of you,’ he said, looking to the others. He was obviously used to talking for them. ‘Well, I hope you have a pleasant evening.’
‘And you,’ I said.
No sooner was the front door open than Kip grabbed Ginger’s cap from his head, and leaped down the stairs while Ginger managed to kick Kip’s departing backside. But Michael, the coloured one, walked out slowly, then turned back round and gave me another of his picture-house smiles.
* * *
Only Michael appeared in the morning. Standing at the kitchen door his shirt collar open, his sleeves rolled up, he waited for a moment before saying, ‘Good morning.’
And I don’t know why I jumped – I knew he was there. All I had to say was ‘Good morning’ back, put the kettle on the stove and light the gas. But I held the kettle in front of me and said, ‘Would you like some . . .?’ then completely forgot the name of that brown stuff we’re always drinking.