Epilogue
‘Where in Gawd’s name are you taking me, Bernard Bailey?
’ Sheila demanded for about the tenth time since they’d left the hotel.
He’d only told her as the train pulled out of Penzance in a cloud of steam that he’d decided on a London honeymoon, and it was no use complaining that she didn’t want to go back to the Big Smoke because the whole trip was booked and paid for.
After they’d checked into their posh hotel and left the bags there, her new husband had hailed a passing taxicab.
Then he’d insisted on blindfolding her, for goodness’ sake, giving the cabbie directions in such a low voice that she hadn’t caught a word …
Though the journey had taken so long, she’d begun to think he was kidnapping her.
‘What must I look like, eh?’ Sheila complained, reluctantly allowing Bernie to steer her around, only able to see a strip of light under her nose and a flash of dirty pavement below that.
‘Wandering the streets with a blindfold on? Blimey … Some joker’ll come up and play “pin the tail on the donkey” if you’re not careful! ’
‘Patience,’ Bernie told her, also for about the tenth time. ‘We’re nearly there.’
‘Well, you could have got the cabbie to stop a little closer.’ She clung on to him, almost missing the kerb as he steered her across a busy street.
‘Bless me, I nearly fell there … Barely married five minutes, already you’re trying to bump me off.
I thought we’d have at least a few happy years of marriage before you got that bloomin’ desperate. ’
Chuckling, Bernie guided her around a street corner. The sound of traffic was more muted now. In the distance, she heard the whistle of a factory shift ending. A clink of bottles from a delivery van. A front door slammed shut. Voices passed them by, some laughter, people muttering …
Under the blindfold, Sheila tensed, catching her breath. There was something familiar about the acrid smell of the air, and the sounds of everyday life all around them …
‘Bernie,’ she whispered as he came to a halt, ‘where are we?’
At last, his hands came up to release the blindfold, and she blinked, adjusting to the sharp light of summer, before gazing about herself in wonder.
‘Gawd blimey,’ she moaned, and began to cry. ‘Oh my saints …’
‘Hush, it’s all right.’
‘What have you done? Why have you brought me here?’
‘What’s the matter, Sheila?’ Bernie cupped her shaking cheek, wiping away a tear. ‘I thought you’d be pleased. Since we’re staying in London a full week … I know we’re visiting Alice and Patrick tomorrow, but I couldn’t not bring you back to your old haunts first.’
Your old haunts …
Sheila turned on her heel, slowly taking in the dusty brick houses in their narrow rows, the spaces where a building or two had taken a direct hit, like a gaping hole in a row of teeth.
There was still rubble blocking some gates, or pushed aside for workmen to go in and out.
Bits of the insides of houses hanging out for all the world to see.
Wallpaper, someone’s ruined sofa, a tattered curtain flapping where a window used to be …
It felt as though someone had hollowed her out. She stood speechless, trembling. Then somehow found her voice.
‘Gladys lived there …’ She lifted a shaking hand to point at one of the houses, where a young woman stood briskly sweeping the step, her hair tied up in a scarf.
‘Her dad’s name was Norman. He worked as a butcher.
Oh, he was a proper gent. Used to give us special cuts of meat on the cheap.
Always let you put it on the slate if you didn’t have the cash.
’ She smiled sadly. ‘When the war kicked off, he was the man you went to when you needed something on the black market, no questions asked. He knew everybody, Norman did.’
‘Maybe that’s Gladys grown up,’ Bernie said helpfully.
‘No,’ she said emphatically, shaking her head.
‘Norman was killed in a direct strike on their Anderson shelter. Him, and his wife, and poor little Gladys too. She was only sixteen. Lily was at school with her. Gawd, she cried for days when she heard the news …’ Sheila rummaged for her hanky, adding hoarsely, ‘Oh, what did you bring me back here for, Bernie? I don’t want these memories …
They hurt too much.’ She jabbed herself in the chest. ‘Right ’ere. ’
‘Darling, I’m so sorry.’ Chastened, Bernie pulled her close, and they stood together for a long time. People walked around them, looking curiously at Sheila while she averted her face. ‘I’m an idiot. It was a mistake to bring you here. Please forgive me.’
But she shook her head. ‘No, it’s not your fault.
It was the war, that’s all. People got killed.
And those of us who didn’t …’ With a loud sniff, she dried her tears.
‘Well, you know as well as I do … You had to keep going somehow. Put it out of your mind. But coming back here now, looking at what we lost in the war, our old lives, everything we loved, my daughter Betsy …’ She stopped, unable to go on.
‘I take it you wouldn’t rather come back to live in Dagenham, then?’ he asked, peering at her. ‘I thought perhaps … Now the war’s over?’
‘No, love.’ Sheila managed a smile. ‘Cornwall’s my home now. That’s where my family is and that’s where I’m staying.’
Gently, Bernie took her arm, and she stumbled on, haunted by the ghosts of her past. But then she saw it and came to an abrupt halt.
‘Oh Gawd … It’s still standing.’
‘What is?’
‘Number 27.’ Sheila gave a cracked laugh. ‘Wait till I tell Vi and the girls. Oh, and will you look at that front door? Someone’s painted it bright yellow. Well, I never.’ She walked past her old house, shaking her head in disbelief. ‘Looks like a bloomin’ banana.’
Bernie put his arm about her, seeming relieved that she’d stopped crying. ‘Listen, let’s go back to the hotel, have a slap-up dinner and start our honeymoon in style. We can forget we ever came here.’
‘Oh no, you don’t,’ Sheila told him, steering her husband the other way. ‘I don’t want a slap-up meal, love. There used to be a little caff just around this corner, if it survived the bombs, and I fancy a nice cuppa tea, don’t you?’
And Bernie laughed, going with her willingly.