“Yes, I know,” Teddy said.
“Of course he knows,” Mrs. Bennett said. “He’ll have left one himself.”
Teddy supposed that Vic’s mother could never officially be Lillian’s mother-in-law and in the future there might be some escape from her for the poor girl. Small mercies.
“He said,” Lillian persisted, ignoring Mrs. Bennett, “he said that when the baby was born, if it was a boy, I was to call it Edward.”
“Edward?” Teddy repeated blankly.
“After you.”
And for the first time in the whole of the war Teddy broke. He burst into tears, ugly, painful sobs, and Lillian stood up and put her arms round him and pulled him towards her swelling body and said, “There, there,” as she would in a few months to her own child.
Vic’s mother, softer now, insisted that he eat with them, as if her corned-beef fritters would somehow heal their collective grief. He was fed more tea and cigarettes and sweets that they had bought for Vic’s homecoming and was allowed to escape only when his eyelids started drooping and Lillian said, “Let the poor man go, I’ll walk him to the bus stop.”
“I’ll come with you,” Mrs. Bennett said, cramming a hat on her head. He was all they had left of Vic, Teddy thought, and they couldn’t quite bear to let him go.
“He wrote about you,” Vic’s mother said, staring straight ahead as they waited at the bus stop. “He said you were the best man he’d ever known.” Teddy noticed her lip trembling. The bus hove into view, saving Teddy from trying to think of an answer.
“I almost forgot,” he said, “our rear-gunner—Kenny Nielson—asked me to give the baby something.”
Teddy produced the shoddy black cat that had been Kenny’s lucky mascot. It had survived its dunking in the North Sea but certainly didn’t look any better for it. On its very last op it had ridden proudly up in the cockpit all the way to Berlin and back.
“That’s disgusting,” Mrs. Bennett said at the sight of it. “You can’t give that to a baby.” But Lillian took the little cloth cat and said to Teddy, “Thank you, I’ll treasure it.”
“I’ll be off then,” Teddy said, stepping on to the platform of the bus. “It was nice to have met you. Well, good luck to you then,” he added, only later realizing that these had been Vic’s last words too.
1982
The Courage of the Small Hours
Most nights he sobbed into his pillow, wondering what he had done to deserve this. It was because something was wrong with him, wasn’t it? Everyone said so—his mother, his grandmother, even his sister sometimes—but what was it? Because if he knew what it was that was wrong he would try to fix it, he really would. Really, really try. And then maybe this endless punishment would end and the evil witch who claimed to be his grandmother would let him go home and he would never be naughty ever again as long as he lived.
Every night when he went to bed Sunny reflected in despair at the catalogue of bewildering rules, questions and general dissatisfaction (on all sides) that had filled his day at Jordan Manor (stand up straight close your mouth when you eat not in the house thank you very much wash inside your ears are you trying to grow potatoes in them what’s that in your hand what’s wrong with you). It didn’t matter what he did, it was never right. It was making him a nervous wreck. And why could he never remember to say “please” and “thank you,” his grandmother scolded.
He had to muffle his crying because if she heard him she stomped up the stairs and barged into his room and told him to be quiet and go to sleep. “And don’t make me come up here again,” she always added. “These stairs will be the death of me one day.” Oh, if only, Sunny thought. And why had she put him up here if the stairs were so difficult for her?