Perfectly Ordinary People(102)

I told her that I understood, but nothing they’d said had been true. That it had all been just to hide their shame.

‘I’ve been waiting for you for so long,’ she finally managed to say. ‘The war went on for so long. And then I went back and they said that . . . They said all that . . . And I believed them . . . and I just felt so alone, so abandoned. Do you understand? And now . . .’

‘And now I’m here,’ I said.

I asked her why she thought I’d come all the way to London – who did she think I was there for, anyway? Why did she imagine we’d gone to all the trouble of getting passports and organising to meet with her at Speakers’ Corner? And finally, through the tears, she managed a tiny hint of a smile. And for the first time that day, she looked like the Ethel I knew.





Ruth. Part Six.

It was Monday the 12th of April and I was downloading that week’s workload via the landline when Dan called me on my mobile.

Impressionable had started accepting submissions via email, and these were now simply forwarded to me by Freida every Monday so that I could read them on my laptop. We were doing our bit to save the trees, and all that. Like a lot of Scandinavians, Freida was of an ecological bent.

Though the Monday morning download was now part of my weekly ritual, the process had become no more reliable. BT had been talking recently about introducing a sort of permanent, high-speed internet service, and I suddenly was able to see the point – that Monday my modem had already lost the connection repeatedly. But at least mobile reception in my street had improved dramatically that year, so I was able to chat while I downloaded.

‘They accepted our offer,’ Dan told me excitedly, the second I answered his call. The download bar on my laptop screen ticked up one notch to a tantalising ninety-nine per cent. ‘So it’s ours if we want it.’

‘That’s brilliant,’ I said. ‘Now we just need the bank to join in the fun.’

At that moment, the download bar vanished, and my list of fresh email was revealed. Three of these were entitled simply ‘Submission’ but the top entry was called ‘Cassette #5’.

‘The bank won’t be a problem,’ Dan said. ‘They’ve already given me an agreement in principle.’

‘Um,’ I said. ‘If you say so. I just never thought it would happen this fast.’

‘But that’s good, isn’t it?’ Dan said.

‘Yes, I guess it is.’

‘You don’t sound very enthusiastic,’ Dan complained, and I realised that he was right. I’d started reading cassette #5 and I hadn’t sounded enthusiastic at all. We women like to think we’re brilliant at multitasking, but in my case it’s not true at all.

I slammed the laptop lid shut and sat up straight, the better to concentrate on the news from my beloved. ‘Sorry, I got distracted,’ I told him. ‘But seriously, that’s great news! What happens next?’

Once I’d convinced Dan that all was well – which took considerably longer than you might imagine – I returned to the next instalment, and quite literally devoured cassette #5.

It felt like reading a novel, but also levering open the heavy shutters that had been concealing my past. Because this was where I’d come from, after all. Here they were, finally, in London. Chris, Genny, Ethel and Guillaume/William/Bill. This was why I was a Londoner, then. This was how Dad had survived the war. Ultimately, this was the reason I existed.

I understood only in that moment the exact nature of the void I’d been living with. Because, yes, I had known that my father was French. By deduction, I’d known that he had travelled to London as a child, too. But in the absence of context, in the absence of the whens and the whys, none of that knowledge had ever made sense. It had all been meaningless, which was why my brain had pushed that knowledge aside. The subject had become blurry and vague – in fact, it had become taboo. But suddenly here it all was, here I was, roots and all.

Once I’d finished reading, I distractedly made myself lunch.

Even if the precise nature of my job was jumping from text to text, I knew I’d be unable to jump from what I’d just read into a dark murder mystery set in Amsterdam. So I ate slowly, thoughtfully, and then fed Buggles, before finally calling home.

Dad answered the phone. ‘Hey,’ he said. ‘You just caught me. I only nipped home for some tools. Everything OK?’

‘Yep,’ I said. ‘Yep, everything’s fine. Our offer got accepted on the flat.’

‘The one next door?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s great news,’ Dad said. ‘I’d better clear some space in my agenda. I’m pretty sure you’ll be working me to the bone.’

‘Yes, I’m sure I will,’ I said. ‘But Dad. Quick question: did you ever live in a stone hut somewhere in the South of France?’

‘When I was a kid, you mean?’ he asked. ‘During the war?’

‘Right,’ I said. ‘So you did. I thought someone had mentioned it. Maybe Grandpa Chris in one of his stories?’

‘Probably,’ Dad said. ‘Why?’

‘Oh, I just, um, had a weird dream. And it reminded me of that. But I wasn’t sure.’

‘I don’t remember it really,’ Dad said. ‘I was too young. But they talked about it sometimes. So I remember snippets.’