‘It suits you short like that. Very gamine, I think they say. What brought that on?’
She hesitated, glancing away, hoping he wouldn’t notice her blushing. Was this the opportunity she’d been waiting for to tell him about Luke?
‘Nothing really,’ she replied. ‘I just fancied a change.’
‘How’s it all going in Paris?’
‘Fine, Dad. I told you on the phone last week. It’s all going really well.’
‘When is it you’re coming back to London?’
‘Next month. The posting ends then. I told you on the phone.’
‘Met anyone out there?’
‘Anyone? What do you mean?’ But she knew what he meant. She avoided his eyes. She wasn’t going to get into all that now.
‘And the work? Enjoying it still?’
‘Of course. Who wouldn’t? It’s a fantastic opportunity.’ It was the answer she knew he wanted.
He reached out and squeezed her hand. ‘I’m so proud of you, Laura. You know that, don’t you?’ She smiled weakly and looked away. If only he knew how much she loathed her job.
‘Marge asked me down for a cup of tea later,’ she said, to change the subject.
He let out a wheezy laugh, which ended in another bout of coughing.
‘Her old ginger cat’s had another litter, you know. There must be at least ten of them down there now. The basement steps stink. So does the flat, probably.’
‘I noticed. She’s battier than ever, Dad. Why don’t you do something about it?’
‘After all these years? You’ve forgotten how good she was to us when you were little.’
She hadn’t forgotten. The endless hours she’d spent in that gloomy basement, staring up from the window at the front gate, waiting for the moment when her father’s shoes and legs would appear and he would be home from the office. The portable TV flickering in the corner, showing Peyton Place, Crown Court, The Flowerpot Men. Marge would make her peanut butter sandwiches on Mother’s Pride, would serve them along with milky tea in chipped mugs.
‘Of course, I haven’t.’ She felt her irritation rise, but tried to hide it in her voice. ‘I’ll go down later.’
The pips on the radio struck the hour, and they both fell silent, listened to the news headlines.
‘Today saw the worst rioting and violence at the News International Plant in Wapping, East London since demonstrations began about a month ago. Eight policemen were injured and over fifty protesters were arrested. Around five-thousand demonstrators were estimated to have assembled at the scene …’
Luke would be there, she realised with a shock.
‘Mounted police and riot shields were used for the first time to control the pickets and demonstrators …’
‘Bloody government. Over-stepping the mark again,’ Dad murmured. ‘First it was the miners, now the print-workers. When on earth will it stop?’
Her mind was racing. Was Luke one of the people arrested? Had he been hurt? She could hear his voice now, his mocking laugh, teasing her for being anxious.
‘It’s got to be done, Loz. Those bastards. They’re out to break the workers. We’ve got to fight back,’ Luke would say.
‘Laura?’
The news had finished and the announcer was introducing a new programme.
‘Today, in 1942, Singapore fell to the Japanese. This was a turning point in the war for Britain and for the British Empire …’
‘Laura! Could you switch off the radio?’
She fiddled with the dial. There was silence. Dad was watching her face. His clear blue eyes missed nothing.
‘Are you OK? You look miles away.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘You sure?’
‘Look, Dad, I came here to see how you are. Could you stop worrying about me?’
‘Well, you can see how I am. On my last legs. Or leg I should say.’ He smiled at the feeble joke, displaying his missing teeth.
‘Has anyone else been to see you?’ she asked.
‘Only Marge and Ken. No-one else knows I’ve had a fall. Why do you ask?’
‘No reason. It’s just that there was someone standing outside the house when I arrived.’
He frowned.
‘An old guy,’ she went on. ‘Looked like a tramp. Grey hat and coat.’
His expression changed. The humour and twinkle vanished. His face drained of colour. For a moment she didn’t recognise him.
‘Are you all right, Dad?’
He looked away. He took some deep breaths and drew deeply on his cigarette. Then he turned back towards her, still pale but his features now composed.
‘Was it someone you know?’
Slowly, he nodded his head.
‘Leech,’ he almost spat the word.
He took the cigarette out of his mouth. Laura could see that he was shaking. He turned to her, gripped her hand and looked her in the eyes.
‘He’s been pestering me. If he comes to the door, don’t let him in. Promise me this.’
‘You’re frightening me now. How do you know him? Was he … one of your criminals?’
He loosened his grip on her hand.
‘No. No, he wasn’t a client.’
She waited for him to go on, but he seemed lost in his own thoughts again. The clock on the mantelpiece chimed a quarter past the hour.
‘I knew him in the war, Laura,’ he said at last. ‘He was …’
Then he whispered something. His voice was so hoarse that she had to lean forward to catch the words.
‘In my camp.’
His fist was cold and clenched so hard that she could feel the bones of his knuckles under the stretched flesh. A chill went through her. In her twenty-six years she had never heard him speak seriously of what he had endured during the war. He would often make joking reference to his lame leg – ‘My old war wound,’ he would say. And after a few beers he would break into the bawdy songs he had learned as a soldier. But she had never heard him speak seriously about the war.
They sat in silence, listening to the ticking clock, to the sounds of the drills in the house opposite theirs, to the rumble of a tube train passing them deep beneath the house.
Finally, she asked in a small voice, ‘You’ve never really talked about it, Dad.’
He shook his head.
‘No. I’ve never talked about it.’
The words were said with an air of finality. She had
