Dead to Me Page 19

  Going indoors, Verity looked in the drawer where she kept cooking implements, took out a palette knife and looked at it reflectively. A thin blade, bendy too, and strong enough to withstand a little force.

  As Miller had named three families who had abandoned their homes it was simple enough to walk down to the telephone box at the end of the street and look up their addresses in the directory. After finding them, she rang the numbers too. There was no answer from any of them.

  What had started out as a mere fantasy suddenly became real. She actually wanted to burgle one of these houses, she even felt excited at the prospect of it.

  When it was close to sunset on Saturday evening she walked up to Blackheath to make absolutely certain there wasn’t anyone in the houses, and checked out each of them for lights as it got dark. The address in the Paragon was in a terrace, but she found the way to the back service alley and peered through the gate. She didn’t think she’d attempt to rob that one, it would be too hard. But Blackheath Park and The Glebe both looked like good possibilities, with side gates leading to gardens that had trees to hide her from view. She settled finally on the one in The Glebe and decided it would be at daybreak the following morning, with enough light to see what she was doing, but yet too early for anyone to be about on a Sunday morning.

  Verity’s heart was pounding as she got to the house in The Glebe early the next morning. She was so nervous she almost walked away, but the side gate wasn’t even padlocked, and after slipping on her gloves she was through it and into the garden in seconds. Internal shutters were closed at the front of the house, but not at the back, and the trick with the palette knife worked like a dream on a small scullery window. She was through the window and on to a draining board in seconds, then with just the briefest glance around the kitchen and laundry room, where clearly no one but a maid or housekeeper came, she went up the stairs to the main rooms. In the drawing room she took a pair of handsome silver candlesticks and a silver bonbon dish. There was masses of silver in the dining room, mostly large tureens and heavy cutlery, but she took only a small jug, and nothing at all from the study at the front of the house.

  She went upstairs then to the master bedroom, where she found a ruby brooch sitting in a drawer, and an old-fashioned big silver locket. She looked in the wardrobe, purely because both her mother and her aunt had been in the habit of putting a little cash away in theirs. To her complete shock, there in a shoebox was a wad of five-pound notes.

  It seemed to justify what she had done, and because of it she put the jewellery back where she’d found it, and returned the candlesticks and bonbon dish to the dining-room table. She had said she wouldn’t be greedy – and anyway they were bulky and heavy to carry.

  She went out the way she came in, using her knife to close the latch again. A few moments later she was walking down the road again, her mission accomplished.

  On arriving home she opened her handbag to count the money. But to her surprise, along with the money was the small silver jug, which she’d forgotten to put back. That pulled her up sharply, making her see the enormity of what she’d done. Burglary was a crime you got sent to prison for.

  She sank down on to a chair, head in hands. It was a terrible thing she’d done, and she felt very ashamed that she’d allowed greed to overcome her conscience. Later she counted the banknotes and discovered there was fifty-five pounds, more money than she’d ever seen at one time before. Somehow, she felt alright about the money – money could easily be replaced, if you were rich – but the jug could have been a wedding present from someone dear to the owners.

  Ruby looked up from her seat in the garden as Wilby came out. ‘Come and sit with me for a few minutes,’ she said.

  The blossom on the cherry tree was just opening up in the sunshine, and all the new leaves on the trees and shrubs were the sharp acid green of spring.

  ‘Something wrong?’ Wilby asked.

  ‘I just had a funny little feeling about Verity,’ Ruby admitted.

  ‘Sorry you cut her off? I did tell you that you’d regret it.’

  ‘I was too vile to expect her to forgive me now,’ Ruby shrugged. ‘I’m too ashamed to even admit to you what I said. But this feeling I had was more like a premonition. Like something was happening to her.’

  ‘Then you should stop being so pig-headed and drop her a line,’ Wilby said sharply. ‘That girl is the reason you are alive today. I don’t think you ever appreciated just how poorly you were.’

  ‘Sometimes things are broken beyond repair,’ Ruby sighed. ‘I really don’t ever want to see my mother again, I don’t regret telling her that. But I’ve left it too long now to even hope Verity might still care about me.’

  ‘Don’t you think with war likely to break out soon that people should say what is in their hearts?’ Wilby said. ‘In the last one everyone I knew lost someone, and I heard many women, including my own mother, speak of their regrets at not telling the person they’d lost how much they loved them.’

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Miller came back on Tuesday evening looking dejected. His shoulders were slumped and his eyes had lost their usual sparkle. ‘They don’t want me,’ he said, dropping his overnight bag to the kitchen floor.

  Had he not looked so miserable Verity would have expressed delight that he didn’t have to go away.

  ‘Why on earth not?’ she asked. ‘You’re young and fit, what else do they need?’

  ‘It seems I’ve got a heart murmur. First I’ve heard of it, I’ve always been as strong as a horse.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘And dreadful to be told you’ve got something wrong with your heart. That is very worrying.’

  Miller shrugged. ‘I won’t worry about something I can’t do anything about. But what I am concerned about is what I can do now I’m exempted on medical grounds. There won’t be any gardening jobs going, and I doubt any farmers will take me on if they don’t think I’m fit.’

  ‘I read in the papers they are going to dig up parks to grow vegetables for the war effort, and they are telling ordinary people to turn their gardens over to do the same. So maybe they’ll keep you on at Greenwich Park – and if not, there’s Hilly Fields and Chinbrook Meadows too, all within cycling reach.’

  ‘Umm, yes, but I dread people thinking I haven’t joined up cos I’m a coward.’

  He sighed and turned away, and Verity sensed that he felt as if he’d been cut off at the knees, and was no good to anyone.

  That evening, they barely spoke. Miller was brooding on what exemption would mean for him, and she was still full of guilt at breaking into the house in The Glebe. She had salved her conscience a bit by telling herself she would never do it again. And anyway, it would help the plumber she was getting to install the bathroom, as he had four children to feed.

  Yet there still remained a little voice at the back of her head telling her that she was just a common thief, and a low-down one at that for robbing someone when they were away from their home. She had no way of silencing that voice, either.

  Spring slipped into summer and war was now a certainty, the only unknown was when it would start. Gas masks and ration books were distributed. As it was against the law not to carry your gas mask, Verity covered hers in some bright blue velveteen that made it look like a chic handbag. Everyone was talking about rations, wondering how much food they would each get. They also discussed the merits of the sandbags being stacked against public buildings; some people thought they were an unnecessary eyesore, almost as pointless as boarding up Eros in Piccadilly. Kerbs, lamp posts and other obstacles were being painted with white stripes to help people see their way during the blackout, and that was another cause for amusement. Everyone seemed to be debating whether to have an Anderson shelter in their back garden or a Morrison shelter which was like a reinforced cage, with a table top you kept indoors.

  Drapery shops advertised blackout material for windows, reminding everyone it would soon be an offence not to have it, and many govern
ment buildings were already taping up windows. Yet despite all this activity in preparation for war, most people were very relaxed and enjoying the hot weather.

  Verity could hardly wait to get home and sit out in her now pretty garden. Miller had rescued a little table from beside a dustbin in Blackheath, and painted it bright yellow. Using two stools from the kitchen, they ate outside most evenings, lighting candles when it became dark.

  Having a real bathroom and constant hot water was a never-ending delight too. The plumber had done a fine job, and Miller and Verity had put up white tiles together and painted the walls above pale green. With some pretty curtains and a couple of plants on the windowsill, it looked lovely. Verity had told Miller she had used the bit of money her aunt had left her to pay for it, and she had even managed to convince herself that was true.

  Miller was still working in Greenwich Park, but he had received word from the Department of Agriculture that he was likely to be transferred to another location on the outbreak of war.

  ‘They are already building air-raid shelters in Greenwich Park,’ he told Verity. ‘I heard a whisper too that the military might use the park for the duration. I wonder if they’ll kill the deer for food?’

  It seemed very strange that despite the country almost holding its breath for the moment war would be declared, everyone was so light-hearted. They knew the evacuation of children would start soon, and that food would go on ration, yet most people talked quite casually about where they would go if their house was bombed, often laughing about it as if it would be a huge adventure.

  At Cooks of St Paul’s, however, it was very plain that England’s shopkeepers were not taking any chances, and sales rocketed as they stockpiled goods. Verity was now working permanently in the office doing invoices, rather than in a specialized department, so she saw these increased sales daily and noted which items were the biggest sellers. She found it amusing that corsets were barely ordered any more, yet women’s sanitary products, knitting wool, haberdashery and clothing were all flying out of the warehouse.

  At the end of July, when Verity was called into a meeting along with all the other staff and the departmental managers, she assumed Mr Smailes, the Managing Director, was going to tell them Cooks was closing down. She didn’t actually mind; there had been so much talk about women taking over men’s jobs when the men were called up that she was quite excited at the prospect of change. However, Mr Smailes was adamant that the wholesale business would continue elsewhere, further out of London, where there would be less risk of bombing.

  ‘I’m sure you can appreciate that St Paul’s Cathedral is likely to be a target, and sited so close to it as we are, we think it would be folly to take the risk and stay here,’ he began. ‘We have found suitable premises in Hertfordshire, and so between now and the end of August I ask that you tell your departmental manager whether you want to move with us, or not. All of our young men have already been called up, and I am sure many of the older ones will enlist in the coming months. But for those of you who are left, this is the time to make your mind up, move with us and start a new life in a safer place, or leave our employ and stay in London.’

  A buzz of conversation broke out, people looking to one another, nodding or shaking their heads with either pleasure at the prospect of a new life, or horror at leaving London.

  Mr Smailes clapped his hands to get their attention again. ‘Your departmental managers will be able to answer your questions, and rest assured that those who don’t wish to go with us will all be given references and will leave with our best wishes for the future.’ He paused and smiled at all those in front of him. ‘When it is all over – and providing this building, which has been housing Cooks of St Paul’s for over seventy years, is still standing – we will open again and we will welcome back all of you.’

  ‘I bet he won’t welcome Sweaty Betty back,’ Marilyn whispered. She was a new friend that Verity had made since she’d been sent upstairs to do invoices. Although she was quite a bit older than Verity – over thirty – and a plump, plain girl, she was great fun, always making Verity laugh.

  Verity giggled. Sweaty Betty was a real stinker. She worked in haberdashery and it was said that the manager had taken her to task several times for smelling bad and putting customers off. Clearly she had a medical problem, because there had been no improvement. Even now Verity could smell her, even though she was three rows back.

  It was raining at lunchtime, so Verity and Marilyn went up to the canteen for their break. ‘I’m gonna go, if they help us find somewhere to live,’ Marilyn said. ‘Dave and I have decided to get married before he enlists, and Hertfordshire has got to be a better place to live than Dagenham. What about you?’

  ‘I think I’ll stay put,’ Verity replied. It seemed to her that it would mainly be the married women with children who would want to get out of London, and they could be a dull bunch sometimes. ‘I fancy doing something exciting, like driving a train or putting up telephone wires.’

  ‘Driving a train!’ Marilyn exclaimed. ‘I don’t think they’ll be letting women do that. Anyway, how’s that lodger of yours? Jumped into his bed yet?’

  ‘No, I haven’t and I wouldn’t,’ Verity said indignantly. ‘We are just friends, and it’s nice.’

  ‘Bit of a pansy, is he?’

  ‘No, not at all,’ Verity retorted, wondering why everyone seemed to think that of any man with good manners and who spoke correctly. ‘He’s a gentleman.’

  ‘Some of the “gentlemen” I’ve met were the randiest, pushiest blokes ever,’ Marilyn said with a shrug. ‘Actually, I quite like that in a man, it shows they’re normal.’

  On the way home that evening Verity thought about what Marilyn had said. She had thought of Miller in a romantic way on many occasions; she loved his sparkly eyes, the dimple in his chin, and the way his hair started to curl if he left it too long between visits to the barber. When he took his shirt off in the garden the sight of his muscular chest and arms, now tanned a shiny golden brown, made her feel quite weak at the knees. She was guilty of lying in bed wondering what his kisses would be like too, or how he’d react if she stole into his room and climbed into bed with him. She wouldn’t, of course, attempt to do the latter. She could never be that forward, especially as she had no way of knowing if he ever had similar thoughts about her. She assumed he didn’t, because he’d surely have made some kind of move by now, if he was interested in that way.

  Just two days after Mr Smailes had talked about Cooks moving to Hertfordshire, Miller got home from work to find a letter from the Department of Agriculture.

  ‘Well, blow me down,’ he said as he read it. ‘They are ordering me up to Scotland to work for the Forestry.’

  Verity was horrified. She had been so certain they’d find him a position somewhere local. ‘Do you have to go?’ she asked, feeling as if she might cry.

  ‘I think it’s an order, not a request,’ he shrugged. ‘But forestry work is fine by me, I’d rather that than working in an abattoir, or at a sewage farm. Mind you, I’m not so sure about chopping trees down, I like to plant them.’

  ‘What will I do without you?’ she said, trying to keep her tone light.

  ‘You should get another lodger,’ he said. ‘You’ll need company when the nights draw in, not to mention when the bombing starts.’

  Verity had to turn away and pretend to be engrossed in shelling some peas so that he didn’t see her eyes filling with tears.

  That night in bed she cried silently into her pillow. Miller had almost filled the hole in her life that Ruby had left. He was funny, good-natured, he helped her with chores around the house, and she could talk to him about almost anything. The prospect of being alone again filled her with dread. It seemed to her that she was jinxed, that everyone she was fond of left her. She was nearly seventeen now, but she hadn’t had a proper boyfriend, she didn’t even go to dances like other girls her age because she had nobody to go with.

  She and Miller had been going to t
he cinema together every week since he came here, and they often caught a bus on Sundays out towards Farnborough to walk across the fields to Downe and have a bite to eat in the pub there. He was interested in so many diverse things, from animals and plants to ancient civilizations, and psychology too. He had once told her he’d studied several convicted murderers in an effort to discover why they did such appalling crimes. She had told him about the murderer John Lee in Babbacombe, ‘the man they couldn’t hang’.

  ‘I read up on him, absolutely fascinating,’ Miller replied with real enthusiasm. ‘A complete bad lot – or a madman – to strangle and stab the poor woman and then set fire to her house. I couldn’t find one redeeming quality in him, at least not in all the books and journals I read. He’s now the local legend.’

  ‘Ruby and I used to pretend his ghost hung around Babbacombe,’ Verity giggled. ‘But then someone told us he went to America when he got out of prison, and I think he’s actually still alive.’

  ‘Not a person I’d like to live close to,’ Miller said with a smile. ‘We should go to Madame Tussauds one day, the Chamber of Horrors has all the famous murderers in there.’

  They never got around to going there, like so many other things they’d talked about doing, and now Miller was telling her to get another lodger – as if anyone else would fit in here as well as he had.

  She was very quiet the following morning as they ate their breakfast. She was tempted to tell him how much she was going to miss him, but yet afraid that was too forward.

  ‘You will write to me?’ he asked suddenly, looking at her anxiously. ‘I’d hate to lose touch with you.’

  A wave of joy flooded over her. ‘Of course I will,’ she smiled. ‘As long as you write back and don’t find a Scottish girlfriend who wants to keep you all to herself. There will always be a bed for you here too, even if I do get a new lodger.’