A Woman of Our Times. Rosie Thomas
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‘You are free, gentlemen. The war is over.’
A lorry-load of US paratroopers came to liberate the camp. They brought bread, and fruit, and tinned ham, candy and the unthinkable luxury of American beer. Simon took his packing-case game from under his mat and walked out of captivity with it wrapped in his arms. It was his only possession. Simon Archer reached England after four years spent as a prisoner of the Japanese. It was not, however, a return home. His wife and the baby son he had never seen had died in the bombing of Coventry, and he was not looking for a home without them.
This was what Simon told Harriet as she sat on his bench in the cold, cluttered room. She listened in silence, with only her eyes moving from the game to his face and away again, over the room’s shadows.
At the end, she touched the rough wood once more. Simon saw that he had told her enough. Her questions, at least for the time, had been answered. His body ached and his eyes burned. The assault of memories had left him feeling weak and helpless.
‘I’m tired,’ he told her. ‘It’s too late for you to go anywhere now. You’ll have to stay the night here.’
In silence, Harriet followed him upstairs. The room at the back of the house was chilly and dusty, but otherwise clean. He gave her yellowing sheets from a chest of drawers. They said good-night soberly, each of them stripped of the warm, temporary blanket of drink.
‘You won your five pounds,’ Simon said.
‘No, I didn’t. I prefer to take the direct route.’
‘Of course.’ There was perfectionism in her, as well as persistence. It didn’t surprise him that she was unhappy. But he didn’t pursue the thought. He wished that he had left the game in its hiding place. He was exhausted, and if he slept he was afraid that he would dream of Shamshuipo.
Harriet lay down wearing most of her clothes. The day seemed to have lasted for a very long time, or to have been taken up by a complicated journey. She was glad to have arrived at a destination, to bed in this unfamiliar room, where she could examine her impressions. They fitted together, after Simon’s story. The withdrawal and denial that had puzzled her became bare and understandable fact. She felt ashamed of her probing, now, and more ashamed because it had been motivated by her own self-centred hunger.
Harriet knew that she couldn’t offer Simon any comfort. Her own resources were meagre, and she doubted that even the most generous warmth could touch him now. But he had said that he was glad when she came back, with the courage of her curry and cheap white wine. And he had told her that he wished she was his daughter. There had been that, and the spurt of laughter, between them.
More than that. Harriet took the last of her impressions and fitted it into the picture. He had drawn the old packing case out of its hiding-place and shown it to her. She lay still, hearing the musical descent of the wooden balls as they followed their separate paths. It was simpler and more elegant than life, she thought. The only common factor was the will to win that they both engendered.
She hadn’t expected to sleep. But she did doze, and then fell into a series of disturbed dreams. When she woke it was in the dirty light of very early morning and the house was silent. She slid out of bed and put the top layer of her clothes on again, then crept downstairs to the kitchen. She had been intending to make herself a cup of tea because the drink of the night before had left her parched, but the chaos of the kitchen was uninviting. She used the kettle of boiling water for washing up instead, and worked her way through the piles of dirty plates and pans.
When that was done she cleared and wiped the table and the other surfaces, removing the most obvious rubbish and taking care to put the tools and clock pieces back exactly as she found them. She found herself humming as she worked, enjoying making order out of the mess. In the cupboard under the stairs, amongst more of Simon’s abandoned skeleton projects, she found a long-handled broom and ancient mop and bucket. She swept and washed the floor, and then peered into the shadowy larder that led off the kitchen. There was nothing in it. Simon must have produced yesterday’s tea-bag and eggs from some other hiding-place.
It was nine o’clock. Harriet picked up her bag and let herself out into the street, leaving Simon’s front door on the latch. She didn’t think that anyone would try to get in while she was away. She walked briskly to the Pakistani-owned corner shop that she had noticed two streets away.
‘Do you know Mr Archer?’ Harriet asked the woman in a sari who helped her to pack two bulging plastic carriers. She described him and the street.
The woman shook her head regretfully. ‘I do not. And we know most of the people here.’
Harriet was unpacking the shopping, arranging her purchases in the larder, when she heard Simon behind her. She swung round, almost guiltily. He looked at the packets and tins.
‘You should have accepted your winnings. That must have cost more than five pounds.’
‘The money isn’t important. I just wanted to get you some supplies.’
Simon regarded her and she blushed. He didn’t say anything, except, ‘I’ll make some tea.’
They sat in the same positions as the day before, and Harriet drank her tea gratefully and ate slices of bread and marmalade.
‘When is your train?’ Simon asked. He didn’t try to soften the implication. He wanted her to go and leave him alone again, in peace. Yesterday’s precarious intimacy had disappeared with his dreams of Japan. He didn’t want this girl interfering with his possessions, clumsily imposing a sort of order that only reminded him of how a different, parallel life might have been lived. He didn’t want her food, either. The bright packets belonged to the other, fertile life.
Harriet’s eyes dropped to her plate. ‘There are plenty of trains. I’ll catch one this morning. I should get back to work,’ she offered, making a necessity of departure.
Simon said, ‘Yes.’
When they had finished breakfast she washed the plates, put away the remainders. When that was done she surveyed the room, glad that she had been able to do something, however small, out of her impotence.
‘Thank you,’ Simon said kindly. He put out his hand and they shook, formally, as they had done at the beginning. He escorted her past the grandfather clock, back to the front door.
‘Wait a minute,’ he said. She watched him return to the kitchen, and come out with one of the empty bags from the corner shop. Then he went into his front room. Harriet saw the corner of one of the dismembered armchairs, and heard a drawer pulled open. When he came out again he was carrying the plastic bag, made square and heavy by the packing case end from Shamshuipo. He held it out to her.
Harriet looked at him in wonder.
‘Take it. It’s yours.’
‘You can’t mean that.’
‘I do. Do whatever you want with it.’
He was suddenly eager to have both of them out of the house. They had become entwined, in the dreams fuelled by unaccustomed whisky. He wanted them both gone, although he didn’t expect that the memories would vanish with them.
Harriet reached out, stiff-fingered, and took the bag from him.
‘Thank you,’ she said awkwardly. ‘I’ll take great care of it.’
‘Do whatever you want with it,’ he repeated. His voice was harsh.
He didn’t echo her final goodbye, but he stood with the door open until she had turned the corner.
Harriet walked back towards the station. This time she didn’t see the shops, or the people, or the relentless traffic. The carrier bag bumped rhythmically and aggressively against her legs. With each step she took, she heard the faint click of the wooden balls rolling together. It was as if the game had a life of its own.