Bye Bye Love. Patricia Burns

a band? Can you hear music?’

      A ripple of anticipation went through the waiting crowd. Below the chatter could be heard the thump-thump of drums. People stood up, children danced about. Soon the music could be made out—a cheerful march—and then the outrunners appeared, foot collectors in home-made costumes, shaking their buckets for people to throw in their pennies. The carnival had arrived.

      Everyone had made a special effort for coronation year. Local clubs and businesses had built floats and made costumes, bands had practised all their best numbers, the Southend carnival queen and her court looked as glamorous as film stars. Scarlett and Jonathan saved their loudest cheers for The Kursaal Flyer, a life-sized model railway engine like something out of a western, with smoke coming out of its chimney and organ music blaring from its cab.

      ‘Even better than it was before the war,’ the family behind Jonathan and Scarlett declared.

      Everyone around them agreed. Things were looking up, the war and austerity were behind them. The New Elizabethan age was starting with peace and prosperity in store.

      ‘It was good, wasn’t it?’ Jonathan said as they wandered homeward hand in hand through the crowds thronging the gardens.

      ‘Marvellous! All those costumes—I’d love to take part. Perhaps we should join one of the clubs, you know, tennis or something. It’d be fun anyway, and we’d have the chance of going in the carnival.’

      ‘Yes…’ Jonathan said, guilt once more flooding through him. He’d put it out of his head while they’d been watching the procession, but now it came back with full force. He couldn’t deliberately string her along. Now was the moment. ‘Look…er…Scarlett, there’s something I have to tell you…’

      She stopped short in the middle of the path so that the people behind nearly crashed into them.

      ‘What? What is it?’

      Her eyes were wide with alarm, her face pale. Jonathan realised that, just as he was tuned to her every mood, so she had picked up his anxiety from his tone.

      People were walking round them, grumbling. Jonathan grabbed Scarlett’s arm and steered them off the path, scrambling up the steep slope between some trees till they got to a quieter spot.

      ‘Well?’ Scarlett said.

      It had all seemed much easier when he’d planned it in his head. Actually saying it was different.

      ‘I…well…I got a letter from Tante Jeanne-Marie the other day…’

      ‘Yes, yes, you said.’

      ‘And…well, you know how her brother’s got a restaurant—’

      She was already one step ahead of him.

      ‘You’re going to go and work there? You’re leaving?’

      She looked horrified. Worse than that, there was accusation in her eyes. How could he say he cared for her and yet do this?

      ‘Not there—that’s just it—’

      If it had just been Uncle Michel’s restaurant, he would have put it off, just to be with her for longer. But this—this was different.

      ‘You see, Uncle Michel trained in Paris, at L’Ortolan d’Or. It’s really famous, one of the top places. And the head chef there, the one he worked under, came to eat at his restaurant last week and afterwards they got talking and Uncle Michel mentioned me and they have a place coming up in the autumn when someone leaves and…well…’

      ‘You want to go,’ Scarlett stated, her voice flat.

      All the animation had fled from her face. It was as if a light had gone out. Jonathan felt terrible.

      ‘It’s only for a trial period to start with, but it’s such an amazing opportunity.’ He struggled to explain. ‘A top Paris restaurant. Any French boy my age who wanted to be a chef would kill to get in there. I’d be the only English boy they’ve ever taken. I mean, I don’t know what Uncle Michel said to convince them. Perhaps he made them feel sorry for me, you know, marooned here amongst all our dire English food and that—’

      ‘Oh, yes, well that’s so dreadful, isn’t it?’ Scarlett flared. ‘Poor old you, having to eat English food! So you’re going to go to Paris and leave me here in your horrible pub with your horrible mother and father, are you? Well, thank you very much!’

      ‘It’s not horrible! How can you say that?’ Jonathan responded, automatically coming to the defence of his home and family.

      ‘It is, and they are. Your mother hates me, and I hate her, the evil old bag. She looks at me like I’m dirt under her shoe, and we have to live in those poky rooms and share that disgusting bathroom. It’s all right for you—you have your nice flat at the front. Round the back it’s damp and mouldy and dark and I’m not supposed to go anywhere except down to the kitchen and then Irma’s there breathing down my neck like I’m going to break something or steal her food—I hate it! It’s like I’ve got no right to be there.’

      Jonathan stared at her, appalled. He thought he knew her, but he’d had no idea she felt like this about the Trafalgar, or about his mother.

      ‘You’ve got no right to talk about my mother like that,’ he said stiffly, uneasily aware of how his mother talked about Scarlett.

      ‘I have,’ cause it’s true!’ Scarlett shouted back at him. ‘You’re getting away, aren’t you? You’re going to France, but I can’t. I’ve got to stay here, and without you it’s going to be unbearable! I hate you, Jonathan Blane! You’re so selfish! I thought you liked me, but you don’t, do you? All you care about is your beastly career, and being a chef. You don’t think about me at all!’

      ‘That’s not—’ he began, but Scarlett wasn’t listening. She turned and set off down the slope, twisting and dodging between the trees.

      ‘Scarlett!’ he called, running after her. ‘Scarlett, wait! Come back—it’s not like that!’

      But, if she heard him, she gave no sign. She reached the path, cut through the groups of people still making their way back from the carnival and plunged down the next bit of slope between thick bushes. Jonathan followed, but by the time he emerged from the bushes she had got to the esplanade pavement where the crowds were so thick that they swallowed her up. For a moment he paused on the grass, where the extra height gave him a chance to scan the milling throng of people. He caught sight of her glossy head by the side of two tall men in white shirts and raced down the last bit of the slope to force his way between the people.

      ‘I do care,’ he muttered, pushing and elbowing and getting cursed at. ‘I do care. I love you.’

      It was hopeless. Every other man seemed to be wearing a white shirt. The cheerful ambling crowd shifted and swirled like a kaleidoscope. He was never going to find her in this. It would be best to go back to the Trafalgar. She had to go back there sooner or later, since she was supposed to be washing up at seven o’clock.

      Irma was getting her washing in from the yard as he walked through.

      ‘Ooh, had a lovers’ tiff, have we?’ she mocked. ‘Madam’s just gone by with a face like thunder.’

      ‘Shut up,’ Jonathan growled, hiding the lift of relief.

      So Scarlett had come straight back. Now he knew where to find her. He raced upstairs and knocked on her door.

      ‘Scarlett? Scarlett, I’m sorry. Scarlett, are you all right?’

      ‘Go away,’ came a muffled voice from inside.

      He tried the handle, but the door was locked.

      ‘Scarlett, let me in.’

      ‘Go away! I don’t want to speak to you ever again!’

      Desperately, he shook the handle till it rattled.

      ‘Scarlett,