After You've Gone

  After You’ve Gone

  JOAN LINGARD

  In memory of my parents Elizabeth and Henry Lingard

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgement

  ~ 1 ~

  ~ 2 ~

  ~ 3 ~

  ~ 4 ~

  ~ 5 ~

  ~ 6 ~

  ~ 7 ~

  ~ 8 ~

  ~ 9 ~

  ~10 ~

  ~ 11 ~

  ~ 12 ~

  ~ 13 ~

  ~ 14 ~

  ~ 15 ~

  ~ 16 ~

  ~ 17 ~

  ~ 18 ~

  ~ 19 ~

  ~ 20 ~

  ~ 21 ~

  ~ 22 ~

  ~ 23 ~

  ~ 24 ~

  ~ 25 ~

  ~ 26 ~

  ~ 27 ~

  About the Author

  By Joan Lingard

  Copyright

  Acknowledgement

  The letters in this novel are based on a journal kept by my father Henry James Lingard, who served on the HMS Danae with the British Special Service Squadron on a world cruise, November, 1923 to September, 1924.

  ~ 1 ~

  Freetown, Sierra Leone,

  West Africa

  11th December, 1923

  Aboard the light cruiser HMS Danae, serving with the British Special Service Squadron, under the commands of Vice-Admiral Sir Frederick Laurence Field and Rear-Admiral the Hon Sir Hubert Brand

  HMS Danae

  Captain FM Austin

  Officers and men 470

  Length 471 feet, 4,700 tons

  Guns 6 – 6 ins, 2 – 3 ins

  4 – 3 pounders & 2 pompoms

  1 machine gun, 12 torpedoes

  Dear Willa,

  I am sure you will be glad to hear that we have arrived safe and sound in Sierra Leone, having left Chatham Dockyard on 23rd November and covered the first 3,161 miles of our journey. We are travelling in the following order: HMS Hood, Delhi, Dauntless, Repulse, Danae, Dragon. The Dunedin, the seventh ship, will join us later.

  Sierra Leone became a British Colony in 1808. Why we bothered with it I am not sure – there are nicer places in the world. It has been known for years as the White Man’s Grave, malaria being prevalent, due to the swamps where great swarms of mosquitos breed. There is a plentiful supply of rice, tapioca, peanuts, bananas, oranges, limes, mangoes and pineapples. We are enjoying the last two especially. They are most refreshing. The heat is intense and moist so that one perspires continually.

  Willa shuffled her chair closer to the range seeking its warmth. The letter had been dated early December but here in Edinburgh they were into the first days of 1924. It was a cold new year at that. Squalls of wind and rain were rattling the window making it difficult to imagine this overheated alien place in the heart of Africa. That was what Tommy himself had called it. ‘To start with,’ he had said, ‘we shall be going to the very heart of Africa’, and shown her the pink blotch on the globe. He prided himself on his phrases, something she had noticed on the first night she had met him at the Palace Ballroom, at the foot of Leith Walk. ‘Would you like to take a little turn around the floor with me?’ he had asked, extending one hand to her, keeping the other tucked behind his back. She kept having a recurring dream in which he appeared, standing, with one hand visible, the other, not.

  The globe was standing on the table in amongst the clutter of odds and ends, the salt and pepper shakers, shaped like gnomes, a scatter of kirby grips, a packet of Bismuth lozenges, their passbook for the Prudential Insurance company. Anything and everything was tossed onto the table. All the surfaces in the room were covered. When Willa had first moved in the mess had bothered her, but by now she had adjusted to it. She had had no option. This was the way her mother-in-law lived.

  Tommy had bought the globe so that they could follow the progress of the squadron on its world tour. Willa pictured them steaming in line, advancing in stately fashion through the oceans of the world, leaving white ripples of foam behind them. They were to be away for almost a year.

  She went back to the letter written by this man who was her husband but whom she was finding difficult to recognise in these carefully scripted lines. He had asked her to keep all his letters, as a record: that might explain it. Normally he talked in a rather fast jokey sort of way, but Willa realised that when people wrote letters they often changed their tone of voice. She had a feeling that he had not been thinking of her while he was writing.

  A horse will not live in the heat of Sierra Leone so the transport is carried out by natives carrying goods on their heads. This gives the woman a fine upward straight figure with majestic carriage.

  Trust Tommy to notice that. Would they be wearing clothes, these black women with the splendid figures? Willa pulled herself up out of her slump. Tommy’s mother was forever telling her she should be wearing a corset, especially now, after the birth of the bairn, or else she’d never get her figure back. Willa had, in fact, lost the extra weight she’d put on, whereas her mother-in-law’s stomach sagged like an overstuffed pillow, in spite of being encased daily in a pair of greying-pink stays. When she slackened the laces in the evening she’d groan with the relief of it and fall back in her chair. Willa hated the sight of the stays which made her think of body armour for some enormous female warrior. Their owner strung them up on the pulley to air overnight and didn’t bring them down until after they’d breakfasted. They sat at the table eating their porridge with the suspenders dangling over their heads. Willa, while taking care not to look up, remained conscious of them throughout. She could smell the dried sweat and other body odours.

  She heard the front door open and then the sound of her mother-in-law’s heavy footsteps as she advanced along the hall. Ina Costello came into the kitchen, her shoulders weighted down by her shopping. She dropped the bags on the floor with a thud.

  ‘Those stairs’ll be the death of me yet,’ she announced.

  ‘I could have got the messages,’ said Willa. She usually did and was glad to, to escape from the house for a bit.

  ‘I got some tripe. You couldn’t beat the price.’ Ina knew Willa wasn’t fond of tripe and onions cooked in milk. Then she noticed the letter. ‘Is that from Tommy?’ she asked accusingly. To Willa, at least, the voice sounded accusing, implying that she should have waited till her mother-in-law, his mother, was present for the ceremonial opening of the envelope even though it had been addressed to her. Mrs Thomas Costello. She found it difficult to believe that was actually her. He’d printed SWALK on the back flap.

  ‘He’s in Sierra Leone,’ said Willa. ‘Eating mangoes and fresh pineapples. Not tinned.’ Such exotic fruits were never to be seen in their local greengrocer.

  ‘He’ll need to watch his stomach.’ Tommy’s mother dragged a chair up to the range and collapsed onto it. ‘It’s aye been delicate. What else is he sayin’ then?’

  In the year 1897 a house tax was levied and the following year the natives revolted, led by their chiefs who wanted the old days of slavery and heathenish practices back again. This was quelled though unfortunately many whites were murdered. Tranquillity reigns supreme now.

  ‘Thank the Lord for that,’ said his mother. ‘I’m not sure about some of those places he’s going to.’

  Willa skipped over the detailed description of how the natives built their huts which she would read herself later. She would read the whole letter over again, when she was alone in her room, so that she could think about him in peace.

  The natives are timid in remote places but they do like bright colours. Some remarkable sights are to be seen amongst the black ladies who will wear any old article of European apparel, notwithstanding that it does not suit or fit them. W
e saw one with an old felt hat perched on top of her short-haired head while the rest of her was naked except for a loin cloth. The men are usually totally naked except for their loin cloths though we did see one wearing a battered silk top hat. You can’t help laughing at some of them. Sunday is the best day for this kind of sightseeing. It is all very amusing.

  ‘I hope they dinna go too close to them,’ said Ina.’ You never know what they might catch.’

  ‘I hope they weren’t laughing out loud at the women,’ said Willa.

  ‘Why in the name not?’

  ‘Well, it’s not very nice making fun of them, just because their customs are different from ours. We wouldn’t like it if they came over here and laughed their heads off at us, would we?’

  Ina snorted. ‘No much chance of that. People like them don’t come over here.’

  ‘How do you know?’ Willa felt stubbornness coming up her back, which was how her mother used to describe it. She was aware of a stiffening in her shoulders and the back of her neck.

  ‘Stands to reason, doesn’t it? Where would they get the money, tell me that if you can!’

  That round went to Tommy’s mother. Willa returned to the letter.

  We set sail for Cape Town on December 13th. One and all are wildly excited, for two reasons. Firstly, the crossing of the line ceremony. Secondly, Cape Town has promised us a roaring good time. Who would not look forward to a visit to South Africa? I trust this finds you all well, including wee Malkie.

  I have a bit of a rash on my stomach, due, no doubt, to the heat.

  But don’t worry as I expect it will go away.

  Give Mother my love.

  Yours most fondly,

  Tommy xxx

  ‘Told you he should watch his stomach,’ said his mother. ‘Too much fruit doesn’t do you any good.’

  ‘The rash is on the outside,’ said Willa abstractedly, for she was studying the last three lines. Yours most fondly. Her eye jumped back up a line to Give Mother my love. Did Tommy equate fondness with love? She found it difficult to decide. He had never said he was in love with her, unless it came into a song, like ‘Let me call you sweetheart’. He had a habit of breaking into song when he wanted to avoid an issue. He had a nice voice so, to begin with, she had found it amusing as she wasn’t accustomed to singing men. On his last leave though, there had been a couple of times when it had annoyed her.

  Her friend Pauline said she didn’t think many men came right out and used the word ‘love’, not in Scotland anyway. They might be frightened of being called Jessies. Perhaps Italian men would be different but, then, Tommy was only half Italian, on his father’s side, even though he looked wholly Italian. But he had been brought up by his mother, who was one hundred per cent Scottish.

  ‘I’m very fond of you, you know, Willa,’ Tommy had said when he’d asked her to marry him. By then she’d been expecting Malcolm though he’d sworn he’d been going to ask her anyway. They had been going out together for some months, in between his spells at sea, of course. He was forever coming and going. A niggle of doubt had stayed with her. Would he or would he not have asked her? The most important thing was that he did marry her.

  He had written his name with a flourish. He had a fine hand; you could only admire it. His mother said he’d always been top of the class for writing. His letters sloped to the right without threatening to topple over and his loops were beautifully formed, reminding Willa of sitting at her school desk, copying the perfectly formed sentence above into the space below, watching that she did not go over the lines, dipping her pen carefully into the inkwell, anxious that it would not plunge too far in and stain her fingers. She usually did stain them, up to the first knuckle.

  ‘What line’s he talking about?’ asked his mother.

  ‘The equator.’

  ‘What’s so special about that?’

  ‘They dress up, I think. Fancy dress.’

  ‘He was good at composition at the school. There was one of his teachers, a Mr Jackson, who took a liking to him. He said Tommy could be a writer. He’d a friend who worked on the Evening News, offered to put a word in for him if he’d like. Tommy might have been working for the paper now if he hadn’t upped and joined the Navy at fourteen.’

  It was one of the few decisions that Tommy appeared to have taken without his mother’s consent. He had gone out and done it and come back and told her. She had found a little comfort in the fact that he’d joined the Royal Navy, not the Merchant. I joined the Navy to see the world, he liked to sing, as he shaved in front of the bathroom mirror. And what did I see? I saw the sea.

  He was seeing more than the sea now.

  Willa could understand why he hadn’t wanted to work on the Edinburgh Evening News and report local events, such as weddings, funerals and council meetings, though she’d have jumped at it herself if she’d got the chance. It would have been more interesting than sitting on a high stool in the Co-op office totting up figures, and she’d been good at English, too, at school. But Tommy had itchy feet; he hated sitting still, liked to be on the go. Where Tommy was, there was life. That was what she’d felt about him from that first meeting when he’d asked her to dance the Charleston. It was his kind of dance though he’d taken her up for a slow waltz afterwards and held her close, disturbingly close. She’d kept thinking she ought to try to move back a bit but his arm round her waist had been strong and unyielding. He’d murmured into her hair, telling her it was the colour of beech leaves in autumn. Willa’s friend Pauline had snorted when Willa reported that. ‘Don’t trust a man with fancy talk!’

  They’d been in the cloakroom combing their hair and collecting their coats after the last dance.

  Pauline had just had her hair bobbed and Willa had been considering it but now she was thinking that maybe she shouldn’t after all. Tommy had also said a woman’s hair was her crowning glory but she was not going to repeat that to Pauline who would only sniff. He had asked to take her home and she was thinking that maybe Pauline was miffed about that though they had always had an understanding that if one of them met a man the other would go home on her own.

  ‘You can see him coming from a mile off!’ declared Pauline, batting her nose with her powder puff, then wrinkling it to make a face at herself in the dim mirror. Several of the bulbs along the top were dead. Their faces looked ghostly in the pocked glass. ‘He’s only out for what he can get, with that flashy smile of his. Fancies himself as the second Rudolph Valentino! You watch yourself, Willa!’

  Willa thought he did look a little like the film star. She and Pauline had gone to see Valentino in The Sheik three times and had come out after each showing entranced.

  ‘If he’s got his mac with him you’ll know he’s got other things in mind,’ said Pauline.

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘For lying on, stupid!’

  ‘I’ll ask him if he’d mind if you walked up with us.’

  ‘He wouldn’t want me tagging along. I’d get in his way, wouldn’t I? I’ll get a tram.’

  Tommy didn’t propose a tram. ‘Let’s walk!’ he said. The night was warm and dry but he did have his mackintosh with him. He carried it slung over one shoulder. Still, thought Willa, with Scottish weather being what it was, he might have decided to be on the safe side. She wasn’t going to damn him for that one little thing.

  He had already ascertained that she lived in digs in Bread Street, which was on his way home.

  ‘It’s a great night for walking,’ he said. ‘And it’ll give us more chance to get acquainted.’ He broke into song. ‘Shine On Harvest Moon’. He slid his arm round her waist and from time to time he squeezed it, pulling her in towards him, saying to cuddle up and keep the cold out. They were walking so close they kept bumping hips but he just laughed and when they rounded the corner at the east end of Princes Street he eased her into the store’s doorway and kissed her.

  ‘We could go for a little stroll through the gardens,’ he murmured, running his fingers over her face
, feeling her cheekbones. His touch was light and made her tremble.

  ‘Will the gates not be locked?’

  ‘I’ll lift you over the top. I’m sure you’re light as a feather. It’ll be nice in the gardens. Nice and quiet.’ It was May-time and the flowers were opening.

  For a moment she found herself almost about to give way, then she shook her head. ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘Right you are!’ He did not insist and she respected him for that.

  She thought then that he might not ask to see her again and maybe Pauline was right, that he did only want one thing from a girl and if he didn’t get it he would lose interest. On the way along Princes Street and up Lothian Road they talked about their lives, finding that they had both been pupils at Tollcross Public School, though at different times. He was five years older than her. He told her that his father had died when he was a baby and he’d been brought up by his mother. She told him that her father had fallen at Ypres and her mother had died in 1918 after a long struggle with tuberculosis. Since then she’d been on her own, lodging with a neighbour and working as a clerk in the Co-op.

  When they reached her stair door he kissed her again but that was all. He didn’t try anything else on, not like some of them who seemed to think they were entitled to a reward just for seeing you to your door. Tommy said he was off to sea next day but he’d like to take her out when he came back. She didn’t expect to see him again but she did, at the Palace, a few weeks later. Pauline nudged her and said, ‘Don’t look now! Your Rudolph Valentino’s back in town.’

  ‘He’s not mine.’ Willa looked the other way, trying to assume indifference.

  But he came straight over to her, cutting across the floor, weaving his way through the dancing couples.

  ‘Remember what I’ve said!’ hissed Pauline. ‘You watch yourself!’