On the Edge [= Dead Gorgeous]

27

As Rose reversed the car into a space in Lowndes Square she admitted that they wouldn’t be working to a plan. In Air Force parlance it was chocks away and let us pray.

The entrance to the Stationery Office depot was manned by a burly ex-serviceman with two rows of ribbons and a seen-it-all-before look. He said nobody was ever allowed inside without an appointment and then stared over their heads as if that were the end of it. Rose kept talking. And when she told him she was Barry Bell’s widow it worked like a password. He beamed and grasped her hand. Wing Commander Bell have been a particular pal of his with a wicked sense of humour just like his own and the depot could do with a few more like him.

It was a long time since Rose had found cause to be thankful to Barry.

She explained that she had been asked by Mr Gascoigne to collect some of her husband’s things and since she was still not coping very well alone she had brought her friend.

The doorman wrote out a pass for them and ordered a messenger boy to take the two ladies to Gascoigne’s office. They were led through swing doors and along a corridor painted in institutional green and cream. A second set of doors opened into a place of a size and scale they were unprepared for, a warehouse as long as the nave of St Paul’s, with rank upon rank of metal storage racks where the pews would have been.

Rose’s nerve faltered. She glanced Antonia’s way and rolled her eyes upwards.

Antonia shook her head and gave the V-sign.

Gascoigne’s office was higher than everything else, mounted on struts like a watchtower. They climbed an iron staircase, and had to be let into the office to wait because he wasn’t inside. Through windows the length of each wall they could see brown-coated civil servants between the racks collecting packets of stationery and loading them on to hand-trolleys.

While the boy went to look for Gascoigne the two women stared out at the scene. Antonia asked if Barry had been one of the trolley-pushers.

‘He must have been.’

‘Can’t imagine it.’

Rose could, without difficulty. She wasn’t a believer in the occult, yet she had a disturbing sense of his presence here. Listening to the doorman she had sharply visualized the wisecracking clever dick who was her husband striding through that entrance with some fresh quip to brighten the day. All along the corridor she had been conscious of him, into the warehouse and up the stairs and now if she turned her head he would be just behind her in one of those brown overalls, grinning all over his face at what had happened to her and what she was desperate enough to be planning now.

Bastard. She still hated him. Soon after they’d married he’d given up bothering to amuse her. All the bonhomie was directed at other people.

Antonia said someone was coming.

‘Oh, God.’

‘He’s only a man, darling.’

Gascoigne had come up the stairs in a rush and was breathless. He was in the same dark grey pinstripe he’d worn at the funeral. He held out his hand. ‘My dear Mrs Bell, they didn’t tell me you were expected this afternoon.’

‘They didn’t know. We just happened to be passing. This is Mrs Ashton who is helping me attend to things.’ Not entirely untruthful. Ashton had been Antonia’s maiden name. And they were attending to things.

A small stack of chairs stood in one corner. Gascoigne lifted two out and dusted them with his handkerchief. ‘How are you feeling now, Mrs Bell?’

‘Not much better, I’m afraid.’

‘It’s early days.’

‘You mentioned some articles of my husband’s.’

‘Yes, indeed.’ He opened a desk and took out a brown envelope. ‘Would you care to check them?’

‘That’s all right.’

He coughed. ‘I meant would you be good enough to check them. Perhaps it’s fussy of me, but I need a receipt.’ He flapped his hand vaguely. ‘Bureaucracy, I’m afraid.’

She let the things slide out on to his desk. A Swan fountain pen that she had seen Barry use at home to fill in his football coupon. Two tickets for a dance at the Hammersmith Palais on October 12th — one date loverboy had been unable to keep. Finally a snapshot. She got a jolt as if Barry himself had nudged her. The picture was of a woman holding a child, a boy of eighteen months or so. She turned it over. In a neat, small hand was written, ‘To Darling B from Mike and Me’.

She tore it in two and dropped it into the wastepaper basket with the dance tickets and the envelope.

Gascoigne looked shocked. ‘I seem to have dragged you here unnecessarily.’

Antonia beamed at him. ‘Not at all. The pen will come in useful, if it’s only to sign your receipt.’ She picked it up and handed it to Rose, who scribbled her signature on the slip of paper Gascoigne had ready.

Gascoigne thanked her. ‘Will you have a cup of tea? It’s past the time, but I’m sure the ladies downstairs will rise to the occasion. Wing Commander Bell was very popular with them.’

‘No doubt.’ Rose was choking with bitterness from seeing the photograph. She pressed her hankie to her face and told herself angrily to stay in control. Then she stood up and glanced out of the window at the storage racks. ‘What would really please me would be to see exactly where he worked.’

Gascoigne paled. ‘That’s not possible, I’m sorry to say.’

Antonia chipped in. ‘Oh, I say, you can’t mean that, Mr Gascoigne. You don’t know what a comfort it would be.’

‘It’s a matter of security.’

‘No, darling. Humanity. It’s a matter of humanity. What do you think she’s going to do — steal a ration book?’

‘Goodness, no.’

‘Well, then?’ She moved closer to Rose and slipped her arms around her and looked appealingly at Gascoigne.

‘There are regulations.’

‘You’re just obeying orders, is that it? That excuse has an ugly ring to it, Mr Gascoigne.’

A flicker of indecision crossed his features.

Rose raised her head from Antonia’s shoulder and smiled wanly. ‘Please forget that I mentioned it. I wouldn’t want you to get into trouble over me.’

He licked his lips. He was a lost man. He scraped his chair and sprang up. ‘Look, I think we can bend the rules just this once.’

Downstairs he hurried them past the trolley-pushers to an unoccupied space between the racks. ‘As you probably know, this depot was established early in the war, when Churchill realized the havoc that would be caused if the building in Storey’s Gate was bombed. Now I think we have more capacity than they do. We handle just about every item of government stationery. I am the despatch officer.’

‘You must be kept busy.’

He smiled disdainfully.

Rose turned to one of the stacks. ‘What are these?’

‘Leaflets about swine fever. Everything along here relates to agriculture. Not much to interest a lady.’

She asked whether the numbers painted in white on the base of the rack were significant and he started telling her about the classification system.

Rose cut in. ‘There must be a list of all these numbers somewhere.’

‘There is. I’ll show you.’

As they followed him to the end of the rack Rose tapped Antonia’s arm. ‘See you at the car.’

She stood for a minute or so in front of the plan and index displayed on the end wall — long enough to learn that the Registration of Births, Marriages and Deaths section was in Rows GRO1 to 6 and that Form 134/B (Disposal) was stored in GRO6. Gascoigne was running his finger down the list pointing out items that they might have come across as housewives.

Rose sidled around the end of the nearest rack, turned and walked away, up the column towards the far end. As soon as she reckoned Gascoigne wouldn’t see her if he turned round she stepped out fast. She relied on Antonia to invent some excuse.

She slowed to pass two people with trolleys. They didn’t give her a second look. She could imagine how easy it would be to get into a zombie-like state pushing a trolley up and down these aisles. Whichever one you chose the scene was the same: dark shelves reaching almost to infinity and lit at intervals by lamps with conical shades coated in dust.

The system also made strong demands on one’s concentration. She reckoned the racks marked GRO ought to have been about halfway along, but she’d gone three-quarters of the way and still hadn’t found them. She stopped, not wanting to panic, yet fearing she was in error. If she retraced her steps she had no certainty of doing any better. Her shoulders went tense and she breathed faster. Couldn’t stand still. Had to look as if she knew what she was doing.

She turned and went back the way she had come, along the ends of the rows, checking the code numbers. About the middle she became convinced that she was wasting precious time. None of the GRO numbers was there. She would have noticed the first time.

Then she raised her eyes and saw a set of letters and figures much higher up the rack she was standing beside. Because she’d first noticed the information at eye level she hadn’t looked any higher. There was a whole series she’d missed. Encouraged, she moved on and found the rack marked GRO6 just a short way ahead. She reached out and ran her hand along one of the shelves. Now all she had to do was find 134/B (Disposal).

The stationery itself was not on view. It was stored in brown paper packets with the coding written on labels pasted on to the ends. She moved along the rack reading them off.

134/B. She clenched her fist in triumph, or relief.

Her idea was to unwrap the top packet, remove a disposal form and tuck it into her handbag. With some care she prised her fingernail under the fold to separate it without causing a tear.

‘Are you looking for something?’

A man had come up behind her.

She gasped and spun round.

‘What are you doing, exactly?’ He wasn’t one of the trolley-pushers. He was in a suit like Gascoigne. An important-looking man with silver hair and a black moustache.

A surge of fear galvanized Rose. A lie sprang readily to her lips. ‘I was sent over from Somerset House. They ran out of 134/Bs. Mr Gascoigne told me where to find them.’

‘Ah. Gascoigne.’

‘Here they are. Good.’ She tucked a packet under her arm and set off at as brisk a walk as she dared towards the far end of the warehouse and the exit. She wouldn’t stop if he called out. There was such a pounding in her head that she wouldn’t hear anyway.

She stared ahead, knowing she was trapped if anyone chose to block her path. It was the recurring nightmare of being chased up a narrow passageway, thinking she could make it to the end and then being met by a leaping tiger. Or, in this case, Gascoigne. But he didn’t appear. She turned right and headed for the swing doors without a glance to either side. People were moving about there and she avoided looking at them. Through the doors and into the corridor.

Walk.

It was longer than she remembered. God, she thought, I hope I picked the right doors. And then, oh, no, what am I going to tell the doorman?

He turned to face her as she burst through the doors. ‘Everything all right?’

‘Yes.’ She smacked her hand over the label on the packet. ‘I got the things.’

‘You seem to have lost your friend.’

‘Oh, she’s following. Got talking to someone. ‘Bye, then.’

‘Best of luck.’

She’d already had more of that than she was entitled to expect.