Letters From an Unknown Woman (14 page)

‘It’s Tory,’ said Tory, ‘Tory Pace,’ and she hurried towards Peter Street, feeling as though she had left something precious behind in the car with George Farraway.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

From that moment on things happened for Tory with a breathtaking swiftness. The very next day George Farraway made a rare appearance in the Packing Room, having thought up, so Tory supposed, some economic pretext for discussing packaging matters with Clara, the packing manager. He had done this several times before, and each time it had caused a stir, and this time even more so because he moved across to one of the packing tables and started chatting directly with some of the girls. He wasn’t at Tory’s table but was at the other end, where the older, regular workers sat. There he was, chatting with Edi, his number-one fan. Not all of the old faithfuls were so in awe of George Farraway but they admired him, as much for his wealth as for his illustrious past.

The next day he visited the Packing Room again, this time casting some words in the direction of Tory’s table, some idle pleasantries and humorous little jibes. The reaction here was very different: there were blushes from the younger women, some titters, but generally a feeling that no one knew what to say, or if they should say anything at all. Only Tory rose to the occasion. When George asked, ‘And how are all you fine young ladies managing?’ she replied, ‘We could do with some stronger thread. This type keeps breaking.’

Clara, who was nearby, looked sternly at Tory and would have wagged a finger, if she had been in sole authority. Other girls at the table stared at her in shock. But instead of the sharp retort they were expecting, the ‘There’s a war on’ line, ‘We’ve got to make the best of what we’ve got’, George took a serious interest in the thread. He asked the opinion of other girls (who backed up Tory’s claim). He asked Clara how long they’d been using it. He even unwound a piece and tested its strength between his hands. In his powerful arms it sundered as easily as a single hair. He departed, asking Clara to look into it. ‘We can’t have production slowed down by poor materials,’ he said, ‘and we certainly don’t want bags breaking in transit. We’ve a big order to meet by next week …’

Then he began giving her lifts regularly. She thought nothing untoward at first, because George was a generous man with his lifts, and there were quite often other people in the car, sometimes other young girls from the factory, sometimes people from the gym, ‘Jelly Babies’, or their trainers. Then one day, when she’d finished an early shift and was on her way home, he scooped her up again, this time on her own, and drove her into London, against her wishes, ignoring the turning that would have taken her back to her mother with a dismissive spurt of acceleration, saying, as he did so, that life was too short to spend evenings alone with one’s parents, and that it was about time she saw something more of what the world had to offer her. He drove her into the very heart of London, a place she’d visited rarely, and not at all since the war had started.

She was surprised to find that it was still a bustling, throbbing hub of activity, that there were still people weaving in and out of each other down busy pavements, that chugging motorbuses and taxis and trams still queued in overcrowded thoroughfares. City gents in morning coats and wing collars jostled for position with market traders lugging crates of cauliflowers to the stalls in Covent Garden, theatres defiantly advertised risqué revues and diverting whodunits, the flower markets dazzled, when glimpsed through narrow side-streets, and gave a honey smell that vied with the stewy smell of cheap restaurants that wafted along the Strand. She’d had a picture in her mind, until then, of the centre of London as a derelict wasteland, Nelson’s column a shattered stump, the magnificent buildings open to the sky, with smoke drifting upwards, and starving hordes picking through the rubble. She’d seen the damage a single stray bomb could do to the shops of Old Parade, and imagined the city centre to be like that, but magnified a thousand times. In fact, Trafalgar Square was just as it had always been, with a victory banner draped across the plinth and the four lions sitting sphinx-like. The National Gallery was sandbagged and the windows, like windows everywhere, were cross-taped. But otherwise the heart of London continued to beat. The only noticeable absence was that of strong, healthy-looking young men, save the occasional one in khaki, on leave. The barrow-pushers were older men.

He took her to Simpson’s, parking the car outside the imposing front door, where a doorman eagerly took care of it.

‘I have brought you to the home of English Roast Beef,’ he said, as they sat at a table amid oak panelling and chandeliers. Tory had dug in her heels like a puppy being taken for a bath as they entered the restaurant, convinced that she would not be allowed in, sure that Mr Farraway was making some terrible mistake in thinking they would admit her. She was, after all, in her ordinary clothes, unwashed and unmade-up, barely presentable at the best of times. Now, seated, she found herself surrounded by tables at which men of business sawed at red meat. There seemed to be no other women.

‘Why have you brought me here?’ she whispered hotly, after the menu had been delivered.

‘Because I thought you could do with some nourishment, my dear,’ he replied, smiling, ‘though with the shortages they’re having trouble even here with obtaining decent beef. We might have to make do with game, or venison. Don’t look so frightened – why do you always look frightened?’

‘I don’t feel as though I belong here,’ she said, surprised that she could so easily express this particular anxiety. In any other circumstance she would have suppressed her true feelings, but George Farraway was an extraordinarily easy man to confide in. In that moment she suddenly realized she enjoyed his company more than that of any other man she had ever met. Nothing she could say surprised or shocked him. Most things she said amused him.

‘They may look exclusive, but in fact they’ll let anyone in,’ said George, adding hastily, with another smile, ‘Not that you are just anyone, of course, but you see what I mean.’

‘Have you brought other girls here?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘I’ve had no desire to.’ He followed this with an enigmatic smile, opening the big tasselled menu. Tory opened hers and was surprised to find that she could understand it. She had been expecting things in French.

Tory couldn’t quite understand what was happening to her. Was George just being kind to one of his employees or were they at the start of an affair? She felt ridiculous in the restaurant, unkempt and unwashed, gauche, lustreless. But looking around her she noticed how little notice was being taken of her. She could tell that George was a widely respected regular of the establishment: the waiters and concierges addressed him by name; some of the customers gave him polite nods. He shook a few hands, casually introducing Tory as a colleague or business acquaintance. She didn’t believe him when he said he had not brought other girls here. She assumed she was one of many, all casually introduced in the same way.

If they were about to have an affair (or had they already begun one? It was hard to say), Tory felt curiously prepared. All that business with Donald’s letters, his implorations for her to be bad, made it somehow easier for her actually to be bad.

‘Well,’ said George, once they had ordered, ‘this makes a welcome change from the environs of a gelatine factory.’

‘Yes,’ said Tory. ‘Cooked meat smells so much better.’

‘I don’t know how I ended up in such a grisly branch of manufacturing. It’s rather like mining gold – to those few who are prepared to do the darkest work, there are the greatest rewards.’

‘But it is useful, I take it, gelatine?’

‘Useful?’

‘Yes, for the war effort. Is it an ingredient in explosives?’

 There was a pause while Mr Farraway seemed to consider this question. ‘There are many, many uses for gelatine,’ he said. ‘You may think of it as an ingredient for thickening desserts, such as jelly and blancmange. It is also used in ballistics to provide a simulator for human flesh. Yes, they fire bullets into blocks of our gelatine in small-arms factories throughout the land.’

The thought rather appalled Tory, as though she had been struck by the possibility that gelatine could suffer. ‘That’s a good thing, I think.’

‘It’s my belief that in the future all food will be made from gelatine in some form or other. It’s pure protein, don’t you know? Utterly flavourless when refined, it can be artificially flavoured to taste like anything. In these times of shortages I believe we can use gelatine, processed and modified, to supply up to ninety per cent of essential nutrients in the diet for a fraction of the cost. Imagine yourself sitting down to a roast dinner, with slices of beef, roast potatoes, greens, gravy. Everything on that plate could be made out of the same stuff – flavoured gelatine. We could inject vitamins and minerals into it for essential goodness. It could have all the nutritional value of an actual roast dinner yet be made from almost nothing but gelatine.’

Tory thought for a moment. It seemed astonishing, a roast dinner made entirely out of gelatine, and she was certain there was something wrong with the idea. Then she had it. ‘But wouldn’t it wobble terribly?’ she said.

Mr Farraway seemed to find this amusing at first, then took it more seriously. ‘Show me your hands,’ he said. Tory did so and he inspected her nails. ‘I have developed a drink that strengthens nails and hair. It tastes delicious too. I would like you to be my first guinea pig, to drink it for a month. I guarantee you will have improved nails. They will be hard and shiny, and your hair, too, will be glossy.’

‘Are you saying I look ill?’

‘Like I said, you’re undernourished, but then we all are …’

 She glanced across the tables as he said this, watching waiters lifting silver domes to reveal saddles of venison, then carving the same with shining knives, to fill the plates of portly capitalists.

‘I see it in the gym, strapping lads all skin and bone. They’re good fighters but they just don’t have the fuel to build up decent muscle. These are hard times for those of us involved in food production. Most of our hides were imported from the United States or even further afield, India and the Far East. Increasingly we’ve had to rely on homegrown hides and bones, but there just aren’t the quantities necessary. We have to cut back. Production is down. And it’s true. Domestic use of gelatine is falling. The ladies of England, like your good self, have enough problems on their hands without having to find the time to make jellies and blancmanges. I suspect the evacuation programme has had an effect, and the foster mothers are disinclined to provide jellies for the children of the towns and cities. We have to explore other avenues to secure a future for our product. Hence my nail drink. In America they’ve come up with a plasma extender based on gelatine. Artificial blood, if you will. I have something up my sleeve too. Protein pills.’

‘Protein pills?’

‘As I said before, gelatine is almost pure protein. My Jelly Babies – I mean my lads in the gym – I believe can attribute their exceptional energy and strength to the regular doses of liquid gelatine I have provided for them. I have some boffins working on a tabloid form that can be swallowed easily.’ He suddenly looked round with exaggerated caution, as though suspecting the presence of eavesdroppers. ‘I shouldn’t be telling you this, you know, trade secrets and all that. But it’s going to be quite a moneyspinner. You’ve seen the way my lads fight – like little bulls, aren’t they? – and they eat no more red meat than you or I on the ration. Think what my pills could do for a soldier out in the middle of nowhere. If he had a pack of Farraway’s Protein Pills in his knapsack he could live on those and nothing else, apart from water …’

‘For how long?’

‘Almost indefinitely. If we can combine the vitamins and minerals – like I said – we could have a complete meal in a little pill no bigger than a cough sweet.’

He pointed to a side of roast beef, which had drawn gasps of admiration from all around the restaurant when it was uncovered – the only such joint available that day. ‘All that goodness and strength contained in a single pill – can you imagine? Oh, I know we have similar things already – vitamin tablets, Iron Jelloids and so forth, but they can only supplement a normal food diet. What I’m suggesting is that in the future we could do away with meat and vegetables altogether. Think of it – no more cooking or shopping, no more crouching in front of a blazing oven basting a joint for hours on end. The future of food is in pill form, Tory.’

She liked hearing him say her name, and she tried to sound approving of his scheme for the future of food. It certainly seemed to make sense on the military front, but she tried to imagine how people like her mother would react, if told their services were no longer needed, she who liked nothing more than to stare into the blazing heat of an oven and skewer a shoulder of lamb to test for running blood. What odd little world would she find herself inhabiting, in which no cooking was done, and what would she find to do in it?

‘Won’t your wife miss cooking awfully?’

It was the first time mention had been made of the woman whom she knew to exist.

‘She may do, but the question really is, would the world miss my wife’s cookery?’ He gave a sideways sort of laugh, before adding, ‘Given the choice between one of her hot-pots and a protein pill … Well, I’m being cruel, I know. I suppose you were hoping to catch me out somehow with that question.’

‘No, not really. But I find myself thinking about her.’

‘I wouldn’t.’

‘Is she beautiful?’

‘Apparently. Too beautiful, probably.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Very beautiful women – they’re an awful bind. They get bored easily, are suckers for temptation, prone to scheming and dishonesty. Give me a plain but presentable woman any day.’

Tory supposed he meant her, and wished she could be angry about it. ‘Does your wife know you’ve taken me out to dinner?’

‘She probably has an inkling I’m doing something I shouldn’t be. When I get home there’ll be a stream of innuendoes. She can be a sarky little tripehound at times.’