There’d been a lull lately, more eerie in its way than the worst of the Blitz—all that quietude and peace had a way of getting people on edge—but on January 18th a stray bomb had fallen right on top of Jimmy’s flat. He’d come home from a night out working and seen the telltale may-hem as he turned the corner. God, but he’d held his breath as he ran towards the fire and ruins. He’d stopped hearing any-thing but his own voice and his own body working, breathing and pumping blood, as he combed through the wreckage, shouting his father’s name, cursing himself for not having found a safer place, for not having been there when the old man needed him most. When Jimmy turned up Finchie’s crushed cage, he’d let out a startling animal noise of pain and grief, the sort he hadn’t known himself capable of making. And he’d had the God-awful experience of suddenly inhabiting a scene from one of his photographs, except the ruined house was his house, the discarded possessions his possessions, the lost loved one his dad, and he’d known then that no matter how much praise his editors heaped upon him he’d failed gravely in his attempts to capture the truth inherent in that moment; the fear and panic and startling realness of having suddenly lost everything.
He’d turned away and dropped, bone-heavy, to his knees and that’s when he’d seen Mrs Hamblin from the flat next door, waving dazedly at him from across the street. He’d gone to her, taken her in his arms and let her sob against his shoulder, and he’d wept too, hot tears of helplessness and anger and sorrow. And then she’d lifted her head and said, ‘Have you seen your dad, yet?’ and Jimmy had answered, ‘I couldn’t find him,’ and she’d pointed down the street. ‘He went with the Red Cross, I think. A lovely young medic offered him a cup of tea, and you know what he’s like for tea, he’d—’
Jimmy hadn’t stuck around to hear more. He’d started running towards the church hall where he knew the Red Cross would be. He’d burst through the front doors and seen his father almost right away, the old boy sitting at a table with a cup of tea in front of him and Finchie on his forearm. Mrs Hamblin had got him to the shelter in time, and Jimmy didn’t think he’d ever been so grateful to a person in his life. He’d have given her the world if he could, so it was a great pity he owned nothing fit for giving. He’d lost all his savings in the blast, along with everything else. He’d been left with the clothes on his back, and the camera he’d been carrying. And thank God for that—what would he have done otherwise?
Jimmy flicked his hair out of his eyes as he walked. He had to put his father out of his mind, their cramped temporary digs. The old man made him vulnerable and he didn’t want to be weak today. He couldn’t afford to be. Today was about being in control, dignified, maybe even a little standoffish. It was hatefully proud of him perhaps, but he wanted Dolly to see him and know she’d made a mistake. He hadn’t dressed up like a monkey in his father’s suit this time—he couldn’t—but he’d made an effort.
He turned off the street and into the park, making his way past the lawn that had been turned over to Victory vegetable gardens, along the paths that seemed naked without their iron railings, and he prepared himself to see her again. She’d al-ways had a power over him, a way, just by looking, of bending him to her will. Those eyes, bright with laughter, that had watched him over the top of her cup of tea in a Coventry cafe; the curl of her lips when she smiled, a little bit teasing at times, but, God, so exciting, so full of life. He was warming now just at the thought of her, and he took himself in hand, concentrated on remembering exactly how much she’d hurt him, embarrassed him, too—the look on the waiters’ faces when they saw Jimmy alone in the restaurant, still holding the ring—he’d never forget they way they’d looked at him, the way they must have laughed when he left. Jimmy stumbled on the edge of the path. Christ. He had to take control, quell his optimism and longing, safeguard