‘What has been done to help their repatriation?’ Like a schoolmaster Paul pointed his finger at Edie, who shrugged.
‘A fat lot of nothing!’ he answered for her.
‘Listen to this, girls, Lilly, just listen!’ Edie liked being called a girl. Now she was thirty-four it was only ever her father who still called her a girl. Paul stood up, got the paper out of the basket and scrambled through the pages for the section he wanted.
‘Here, listen to what the politicians are saying about our boys, who only a short while ago were our heroes:
“The public are shocked to hear accounts of soldiers said to be walking city streets destitute,” said local MP Mister Davies. We at The Courier do not know if there is any proof to this bold statement. “There are some men,” said Mister Davies, “that no amount of effort will help. They are unfortunate beings with neither initiative nor application. Such men go from pillar to post pathetically. There is plenty of work on the land for a returned soldier who has perseverance. But many are nothing more than the worst type of human being, they are sluggards!”
‘It’s a fickle society we live in, girls, where one moment you can be a hero and the next,’ he looked at the paper again to remind himself, ‘and the next, a sluggard!’
Edie returned his gaze with a blank face; she didn’t know what he wanted from her.
‘Well, what are we going to do about it?’ he demanded.
‘Volunteer for the soup kitchen,’ suggested Edie. She pulled out her notebook and flicked to the last page where she had written:
Twelfth November Eighteen
Plan — Learn to drive. Get lessons from Mister Ainsworth.
Now her father had given her permission for driving lessons. Do anything you want, he’d said, and so she jolly well would, and she’d jolly well buy a nice shiny vehicle as well.
Monday, 16 May 1921, when Edie runs an errand.
From 1917 approximately fifteen thousand cars were imported into the country every year. By 1920 a quarter of the vehicles on the roads were motorised and this number would grow every year until 1927 when the motor vehicle overtook the horse. Roads were hurriedly rebuilt to accommodate them and the popularity of the new vehicle with young men gave police an opportunity to come into their own, and they relished their new task of fining any driver they considered to be driving furiously. With the speed limit at fifteen miles an hour the police had plenty of ticket-writing to keep them busy. As the numbers of motor vehicles being purchased grew, the price fell sharply and a new Chevrolet now cost £545 — a handsome sum, still, but not out of reach for the wealthy. Not out of reach, Edie knew, for Paul.
On Monday afternoon Paul said he was going to pop into the office and see how they were all going. He wouldn’t be doing much, he said, he wasn’t going to interfere in anything, but Edie knew that as long as the business carried his name, he would interfere in everything. Geoffrey Coutts of what was now Cottingham and Coutts would just have to grin and bear it.
Edie was glad he was going to the office because she had her own special errand to run and as soon as he had vanished into the cab she went and told Gracie she would be gone for an hour or so. Edie put on her hat, gloves and coat and walked to Windermere Street, the address on Mister Ainsworth’s business card. Number 305 was a cream-coloured single-fronted cottage with a bay window that looked out onto a neat little front garden of native daisies and boronia. A clambering rose that still had a few golden blooms scattered among its green foliage covered the arch over the front gate, which opened onto a path leading to the tiled patio and leadlight front door. It was a sweet little cottage and she thought a man who kept a cottage as pleasant as this would probably be an organised teacher. Or perhaps there was a Missus Ainsworth who looked after the little garden. She rang the cow bell that hung beside the door and soon she heard footsteps coming up the hallway. She had never forgotten the Victory Day kiss but she hoped he had well and truly forgotten it and wouldn’t mention it if there was a Missus Ainsworth. Men and women were kissing wildly and indiscriminately on that day so surely he wouldn’t remember her.
The door opened and he stood in front of her. Slowly a smile spread across his face.
‘I expected you to turn up one day,’ he said. ‘You took your time.’
‘Mister Ainsworth,’ she said, ‘if there is one thing to know about me it is that nothing in my life happens in a hurry and I have learnt to be patient.’
‘I still knew you would eventually turn up.’
‘Why?’ she asked.
‘Because I saw your eyes light up when I mentioned driving lessons. I think that excited you more than my kiss.’
‘I’ll say it did. The kiss I don’t remember at all.’ Her burning cheeks belied her words and she prayed he wouldn’t notice.
‘Is that so?’ he said.
He knew she was lying and it made her indignant. He should have the decency to at least pretend to believe her.
‘It’s all right,’ she said, ‘I was mistaken. I thought I wanted lessons but I’ve changed my mind,’ and she stepped down off the porch and was halfway up the path when she heard him call from the door.
‘I’ll pick you up in the motor car at 3 p.m. sharp. I know where you live.’
It wasn’t a question so she didn’t answer. And she realised there couldn’t be a Missus Ainsworth or he wouldn’t have been so forward. She was relieved, and her stomach, which had been whizzing around like the wind was caught inside it, settled.
She walked home dying
