He was careful to make little sound when he got home, but the walk had wakened him, and he did not feel like sleep. He felt hungry and in need of company, and so he knelt down and talked softly to the dog. Jimbo raised his head in attentive affection before settling back to sleep. On the stone shelf in the larder lay five turnip cakes Mum must have made that afternoon and beside them a pile of oatmeal biscuits. There was no bread. The four eggs meant that the chickens were still laying; meant that the chickens were still there. Ned had moved them into the washroom at the back, and though the kitchen smelt of them a little, at least they were safe. He took two eggs and bit into a biscuit. He hadn’t eaten properly the whole day.
The iron stove had gone out hours ago, but it would not take long to light. Before the Occupation it would have been kept on all night, burning coal that Dad would have brought back from the builder’s yard, but they hadn’t had any decent stuff since ‘41, just wet sludge from Belgium that seemed to generate everything but heat. Their supply of wood was running low, though they had yet to decide whether to demolish Sally’s old pen and use it for fuel. He opened the front of the stove and shoved a couple of small logs on top of a small pile of kindling. Pulling the pan down from its hook, he cracked in the eggs and waited for the heat to come through. There was still some tea in the caddy left over from Uncle Albert’s weekly visit, and though he felt guilty making a pot solely for himself, he put the kettle on. He needed some comfort.
While the eggs were cooking he moved into the other room and sat in the armchair where Dad used to sit bathing his feet, waiting for his supper. Though the light in the kitchen was weak, it shone clear through. Ned couldn’t help but look. This was where he had been brought up, this tiny cottage, the downstairs room, the kitchen, the outside lav and the two rooms upstairs. He had been right to get out, whatever Dad had thought, and now he was back again. Back and alone and without a future. How familiar it looked, and yet how strange that this might turn out to be his whole life; the red carpet brought back from one of the big houses before he had been born, the French clock Grandad had rescued from some sinking tramp steamer, the warped sideboard with the ashtray from Portland Bill on it, Mum and Dad’s wedding picture propped up behind. What else? A square table, a clean grate, a mirror with the silver backing coming off, the lighthouse doorstop and three easy chairs. He returned to the kitchen, put the pan on the table, pulled the Star out of his pocket and started to read.
Like everyone else he took little notice of the news, for that came firmly under the censor’s controclass="underline" reports of Lord Haw-Haw’s latest broadcast, exaggerated claims about their military successes and feeble attempts at ingratiation. Instead he turned straight to the back page. At the top right-hand corner, Conversation Lesson No. 204. Tonight’s was typical. Was halten Sie von diesem Bild? What do you think of this picture? Ich bin kein Kunstkenner. I am no connoisseur. Sie sehen doch, was es darstellen soll. Yet you see what it is supposed to represent. Es stellt eine Dame dar, die Klavier spielt. It shows a lady playing the piano. Now, how do you like it? Nun also, wie gefellt es Ihnen? All very well and good, although Ned couldn’t see the point of the third remark. Either it showed a lady playing a piano or it didn’t. However that was nothing compared with the last phrase. Das kann ich nicht sagen: ich bin taub. I cannot telclass="underline" I am deaf. What should he make of that? What it a mistake. Did they mean to write ‘I cannot telclass="underline" I am blind’? Or was it a joke? He could imagine Sondefiihrer Bohde beside himself with merriment over that one. However, “What do you think of this…?” was useful. Was halten Sie von diesem…? He said it out loud and then looked down to the advertisements. The Trade Cards. The Island’s Market Place. The Entertainments. In far left-hand corner, he read the usuaclass="underline" Wanted. Blacksmiths, Bricklayers, Stone masons, fitters and quarry-men of all classes. Apply van Dielen. 30 Victoria Rd.
Opposite were tonight’s exchange offerings. Two Tennis racquets with pressesfor offer of tobacco. Write ‘Ping’. Dog soap and shampoo for best offer cigarettes, write ‘Bob Martin’. Gents shoes Sir Herben Parker make for sugar or useful commodities.
And in the centre another announcement: Chiropody. Miss Veronica Vaudin is pleased to announce an extension of her opening hours. Mornings 10-12.30: Afternoon 2.30-4.30. Monday—Friday. By appointment only.
Ned leant back in his chair. Veronica had worked hard for her qualification. His mother hadn’t approved of that either. “Feet!” he remembered her saying. “Fancy having a daughter-in-law in Feet!”
“Just the job if Ned joins the boys in blue,” his dad had retorted. “She can massage them of a night,” and he winked at him, man to man, as Mum had banged her temper round the kitchen.
There was nothing in the paper for him. A few bantams for sale, that was all. He placed the pan in the sink and stepped outside. Almost immediately he was aware of a stealthy rustling noise in the field at the back. At first he thought it might be a fox padding along the undergrowth, but despite its stealth it was too clumsy a sound to be made by made four legs. Two legs then, moving towards the back of next door’s garden, oblivious of Ned’s presence. A soldier with a loaf of bread in his hand? A foreign with one of next door’s chickens under his arm? He moved to the gate leading to the back field, ready to pounce, when he heard the sigh of a voice he recognized.
“V, is that you?” he called, moving quickly up to the gate.
A sniffling and then the voice whispered back. “Ned?”
She stepped into the moonlight, her arms holding her coat tightly round her body. Her hair looked almost silver.
“Got home safely, then?” he said.
She blew her nose and laughed. “In a manner of speaking. Sorry about the lift.”
“That’s all right. I fancied the walk. How’s your mum?”
“Not bad. Dad’s his usual handful, though. I needed to take a breath of air.”
He nodded, unable to think of anything else to say, feeling the awkwardness between them. Once they had been so at ease with each other. They were standing in different territories now.
“I thought I heard something,” he said. “No one’s been trying to break in round you or anything?”
“No, don’t think so. What’s there to steal? Anyway, the night’s too bright.”
They both looked up. They were alone, under the stars again.
“We’d have gone canoeing,” Ned said, “on a night like this.”
“You would. I’d have stopped in. Too cold for swimming.” She shivered, as if the coat was giving her no protection at all. “I’d better get back in. Busy day tomorrow.”