There was hardly a line of houses untouched; great swathes cut through residential streets and factories; stumps left where buildings either side had been straddled on a bombing run. Pipes hung out from nude walls like entrails, and wallpaper flapped in upstairs rooms open to the skies. Queues everywhere for everything. Half the city had no lights. London transport sent their buses and their trams out, but never enough, never on time to take the grey-faced folk off to their makeshift offices.
I laughed. If there was a god, sometimes you had to smile and shake your head at his bent sense of humour.
I came to Ruskin Park where I used to walk in the summer. It was cold and empty now. On impulse I climbed over the waist-high gate and walked in. I followed the path down to the pond in the middle. I smelt it before I saw it: that ripe stink of decay. It glistened like oil in the dark. Bare trees hung over the water. I didn’t see the girl on the bench till I was nearly on her. It was the white of her hands that caught my eye.
I coughed to warn her. “Hello. Are we too early for the party?”
She didn’t jump; must have heard me coming. She lifted her face. It was wet. She sniffed and took a hand to her cheeks. She looked about my age, though it was hard to tell through the long dark hair that hung like pondweed over her face.
She sniffed again and pushed the hair back to show a trembling lip and stricken eyes. She looked familiar, probably one of the shop girls from down at the Green.
“I hate crowds,” she said, meaning get lost, mate.
“Two’s not a crowd, is it?”
Normally I’m the first to take a hint, but I suddenly wanted company. Still missing Sandra, I suppose. There was room on the bench for me without getting too close. I didn’t want her to run away. We sat gazing at the pond, not looking at each other. There was no moon but enough light to let the shrubs and trees and pathway show up clearly. I could see her legs stretched out in front of her.
They were slim, with good ankles. She had to be daft, sitting alone in a park at midnight with a madman around.
“I just wanted some peace, you know?” Her voice had lost its edge. “Stuff to remember.”
Of course. A city full of tragedies. New Year’s Eve, and all you can think of is the family you lost in the Blitz or the boy who never came back from the front.
I began to get up. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to…”
She was quick. “It’s all right. Really. Shouldn’t dwell on things. Been here long enough. Go before I catch my death.” Her words were wreathed in vapour.
“I’m sorry…”
“Not your fault, was it?”
I turned properly and looked at her. She was crying again, and it grew to a sobbing and she didn’t cover up her face. She let her hands lie by her side and let her chest shudder and fall in helpless anguish. I was scared to touch her but wanted to reach over and squeeze her arm. She turned her head towards me and the sobbing began to slow. The last time I’d seen such hopeless eyes was in the mirror.
“Come on. You’re frozen. I know a bar. I’ll buy you a whisky. It’s good for cold hands; helps you forget too.” Not that I needed help, I almost added.
“I’m not a pick-up, you know!”
“Course not! But there are enough nutters around.”
Her glistening eyes sized me up. I tried to look like I was wearing a dog-collar. She smiled gamely and nodded.
“I’m Danny. Danny McRae. What’s yours?”
“Valerie Brown. Val.”
We got up and we walked back out of the park and up the hill till we cut over to Grove Lane. She was the right height to fit under my arm if we ever got that far. The George Canning still had its blackout curtains up; handy if you wanted to let your best customers go on drinking after hours. We had about ten minutes to go before midnight. Just before we went in and the lights hit us, I stopped and turned to face her.
“Val, I need to say something. I’m a wee bit war damaged too.” I took off my hat and made her see the white lines that I knew would be gleaming silver in the moonlight like a snail trail.
“You trying to impress me?”
“I didn’t want you to faint. Or drop your whisky.”
“You haven’t bought me one yet, have you?” She gazed with interest at the scars, then lifted her finger and stroked each one, so lightly all I could feel was a line of chill. She smiled and we went in.
We were clouted by light and noise and the smell of folk who’ve been wearing the same clothes for too long through too much. A few turned their heads to see who it was then went back to shouting at each other. Their faces were red and sweaty. I cut a channel for us through the smoke and the crowd and found a tiny bit of corner space with a shelf.
“Whisky, Jock?” mouthed Terry, the bald barman. I raised two fingers twice. He got the drift and two double scotches hit my hands. He whistled when I handed him the big new fiver and checked it against the light. He nodded and rang me up the change. I fought my way back to her and perched the glasses on the shelf.
In the heavy air her pale skin was already going pink under the eyes. The hair was gypsy black, like the Catholic girls I used to know in Glasgow. Her eyes were dark brown, not washed out like Kate Graveney’s. Two pretty women cross my path in one evening. Maybe the new year wasn’t going to be all bad? “Cheers!” I clacked my glass against hers. She smiled and toasted me back. She took a swig and choked and spluttered but held it down. This time the colour spread across her face and down her white neck. Someone called for quiet and several others joined in and suddenly there was still. Terry was twisting at the dial of the radio. The sound of Big Ben’s midnight chimes bonged through the waiting bar. As the last one fell, a cheer went up. Happy New Year!
I raised my glass and shouted, “Here’s to you, Tam and Archie!” as I promised I’d do every Ne’erday till I joined them – wherever they were.
People started embracing and kissing and weeping. Val didn’t seem to be too put off by what she’d seen of me in the light, so I leaned in to give her a quick kiss. She smiled, but like a flash, got her finger across her lips. Too hasty, that’s me. I saw her eyes brim and turned away so she couldn’t see my own tears welling. A maudlin Scot at Hogmanay. Silently I sent word to my mother, and hoped the neighbours were looking after her.
We had another drink and tried to talk but it was like shouting into a Hampden roar. So we gave up and just smiled at each other and at all the daft folk around us and I shook hands with strangers and for a moment I seemed to lose her to drunks. Then she returned to me flushed and flustered. They started singing, all those Vera Lynn songs, trying to recapture the best bits of the war, when we were all in the same boat rowing the same way. But I’d heard “Tipperary” and “White Cliffs” murdered once too often. I sank my scotch and nodded towards the door.
We walked back to my place without saying anything, without agreeing anything. I lit a fire and we sat gazing into it, supping more Scotch. We saw our own past in the flames and hoped… well, all I was hoping was to wake up beside her. But she made it clear there would be no hanky-panky. She stayed with me anyway, dancing out of her top clothes in front of the sparking fire. She kept on her slip and slid shivering between my cold sheets. We lay like orphans, the folds between us, spooned but passion-free, just glad to share a bed against the dark.
Her thin limbs shook until our bodies made a bubble of warmth under the heavy blankets.
I smelt the fag smoke on her hair and the cheap scent on the skin of her neck and gladly relinquished the memory of Kate’s costly perfume. We began to drowse.
A big spark would shake us and make her twitch. I’d shush her like a pony and she’d subside again. The fire dwindled and the shadows deepened. Her trembling eased and stopped, and sleep took us both.