by Clare Flynn
An Unexpected Guest
Eastbourne
Gwen parked the car and crossed the road to the listening station. She was already nearly forty minutes late after waiting in vain for Irving, the taciturn RAF man, to pick her up. She hated driving in the blackout and tonight had been worse than usual as there was heavy cloud making the moon and stars invisible. She had driven at a snail’s pace wondering whether she might have been better off on foot with a torch. Too late now.
The Home Guard who was on sentry duty outside the door to the hut was her old friend from the petrol station. He gave her a cheery grin and asked her what she was doing there tonight.
‘Reporting for duty as usual, Mr Jenkins.’
‘I think you’ve got the wrong night, Mrs Collingwood. There’s two chaps already here. Aren’t you on days this week?’
Gwen groaned. ‘No! I’d completely forgotten. Wild goose chase. And it took me forever getting up here in the blackout.’
‘Tell you what. I was about to put a brew on for the lads. Why don’t you stay and have a cuppa with us?’
Half an hour later, refreshed by a cup of tea, she decided to leave the car and walk home following the road. Tomorrow she could take the shortcut on foot over the Downs for her shift and drive home in daylight.
Walking was not as difficult as driving would have been. And at least it was downhill all the way home. She kept close to the grass verge and used the blackout torch sparingly. At this time of night and up here on the Downs it was unlikely she would encounter a pedestrian. More likely a sheep. After a while her eyes grew accustomed to the darkness and she was able to pick up her pace. It still took her three times as long to get home as it would have done walking in daylight. She wasn’t worried about getting caught in an air raid – most of them so far had taken place during daylight hours.
Closing the front door behind her, she was about to call out to Pauline, when she tripped over something on the floor. She checked the blackout was in place before fumbling for the light switch. A navy blue, man’s overcoat lay in a heap in the hallway where it had evidently been discarded in a hurry.
Gwen frowned. Is this what went on when she wasn't here? She didn’t want to think that of Pauline. Annoyed, she moved towards the open door into the lounge, then shocked, pulled back and leaned against the hall wall.
A man was lying on the sofa, only his legs visible, his top half obscured by Pauline, who was straddling him, her dress yanked up around her waist. On the floor beside them her panties and shoes lay discarded. The man’s hands were pressed around the top of her thighs, his fingers under her suspenders.
Gwen leant against the wall, feeling physically sick. Horrible – they were like a pair of animals. Afraid to move and give herself away, she stood there, frozen, listening as the couple became increasingly excited. Why was it that she felt like the guilty party? Why did she feel consumed by shame?
The man spoke, ‘Oh yes, yes. Give it to me, baby.’ Pauline responded with loud gasping noises that served to increase the intensity of the man’s grunts and moans. Gwen was mortified. Then the embarrassment gave way to anger. This was her home and Pauline was using it as if it were a bordello.
For a moment she was tempted to interrupt them. She wanted to throw the man out of her home. She would have liked to throw Pauline out too. But the prospect of confronting them was too embarrassing to contemplate. She crept up the stairs to her bedroom, undressed and slipped into bed. Tomorrow she would tell Pauline she had to leave. It was immoral to be having sexual intercourse with strange men while her children slept downstairs. How dare Pauline take advantage of her absence this way? How long had this kind of thing been going on?
Gwen felt as if her home had been despoiled, corrupted, stained. She had taken Pauline and the children in, encouraging them to feel at home, only to have her hospitality thrown back in her face. It would have been bad enough if the woman were entertaining men in her bedroom, but to be doing it so brazenly in the drawing room was beyond the pale. And yet it seemed out of character and didn't sit with the woman who had spoken of how much she loved and missed her husband. But what did she know anyway? She and Pauline came from different worlds.
Pauline had lacked any restraint. There was a wild abandon in her lovemaking and Gwen couldn’t imagine behaving that way, feeling that amount of passion. There was no doubt that Pauline was not only a willing partner but was probably the instigator. Gwen felt herself blushing in the dark. The woman was a tart. No two ways about it. Yet she felt something akin to envy. How would it feel to be like that, so consumed by pleasure, so caught up in it that the rest of the world disappeared? No. It was unconscionable. She closed her eyes and turned on her side and willed herself to go to sleep, but her body was accustomed to being awake after her month-long stint of all-nighters at the listening post. Sleep eluded her. She tried to imagine herself on top of Roger on that sofa, but it was too ridiculous to contemplate. So undignified. So carnal. Horrible.
Maybe it was only possible to be that way with a total stranger? Anonymity cancelling inhibition. But where had Pauline picked the man up? She could hardly have gone to the pub or dancing at the Winter Garden, not with the children asleep in bed. It must have been a prearranged assignation. A man she had met in the street? On a bus? Doing her shopping? Had they agreed in advance to have sex? Or had she invited him to keep her company and listen to music and one thing had led to another? Then Gwen remembered the discarded coat in the hallway. The man, whoever he was, had been so overcome with desire that he hadn’t even bothered to hang it up.
Lying there in the dark she wished that Roger was there beside her. She wanted the comfort of his bulk on the other side of the bed, to know that he was there to hold her if she woke from a bad dream. Tears threatened as she realised how much she missed having him around, seeing him reading the paper over breakfast on a Sunday morning, watching him pottering about in the garden, listening as he told her about his day and asked about hers.
Next morning Gwen overslept. When she entered the dining room, to her horror the man from the night before was sitting at the table with Pauline and Sally. He was feeding little Brenda from a spoon, while she perched beside him in her highchair. Gwen froze in the doorway, shocked at the tableau in front of her, anger bubbling up inside like a rumbling volcano. The woman was letting her children meet her lover.
Pauline turned round, saw her and jumped to her feet. ‘Mrs C, meet my Brian! He’s got twenty-four hours shore leave before he goes off on his next trip. Such a surprise. He turned up on the doorstep last night. Isn’t it marvellous?’ She stretched a hand out and stroked her husband’s hair then planted a kiss on the top of his head.
Gwen was lost for words for a moment, then moved into the room her hand extended to shake Brian Simmonds’s. Sally was bouncing up and down on her chair repeating ‘Dadda’ in an excited voice.
‘How was your shift?’ asked Pauline.
Gwen leaned against the doorjamb, reluctant to join the happy family reunion at the table. ‘My shift changed. I’m on days this week. I had an early night last night.’ Hoping that Pauline wouldn’t put two and two together and realise that she and Brian had been observed the previous night, she blurted, ‘In fact I need to get a move on. I don’t want to be late.’ Ignoring Pauline’s quizzical look, she grabbed her coat from the hall and headed out of the house.
As she hurried up the hill, her embarrassment turned to indignation. Why should she have to pretend in her own home? Skulk up to bed to hide? Why should she have to be exposed to the private intimacies of Pauline Simmonds’s marriage? This bloody war had changed everything.
Gwen sipped her sherry and looked at Daphne. ‘What do you mean I’m too straight-laced?’
‘Give the poor girl a break. She hadn’t seen her husband for months. She’s been through a traumatic bombing. She’s lost her home. She’s lost her grandfather.’
‘That doesn’t excuse her for turning my drawing room into a bordello.’
‘You didn’t see what they were doing.’
‘No, but do tell. I might get some tips.’
‘Daphne!’
‘Come on, Gwen. Don’t be such a prude!’
Gwen took another sip of sherry and felt herself blushing. ‘She was on top of him, half naked and riding him like a horse. They were both making a racket. Moaning and groaning and panting. It was all frightfully sordid. They’d obviously jumped on each other the moment he came through the door. He’d left his coat on the hall floor and they were doing it on the sofa, with her underwear all over the carpet. Since he’s her husband I can hardly prevent them from being together but they should at least have had the decency to retire to the privacy of her own bedroom.’
Daphne rolled her eyes. ‘Doesn’t she share a room with her children?’
Gwen leaned back in her chair. ‘Yes, she does.’ She frowned. ‘I am a prude, aren’t I?’
‘Well… I can’t see what the poor kid’s done wrong. She’s given her husband a warm welcome home and you can’t blame her for assuming you’d be out on duty all night.’
Gwen hesitated, swallowed then said, ‘But you and Sandy wouldn’t behave like that. It was so…undignified. I know Roger and I would never…’
Again the eyebrows arched and Daphne leaned forward and took Gwen’s hand. ‘I’ve never told anyone about this but I know I can rely on your discretion and you are a dear friend.’
Gwen waited for the revelation, but Daphne was taking her time. She got up and went to check that the door was fully closed. ‘I don’t want my maid to hear.’ She winked at Gwen. ‘Sandy had an…’ Her voice was lowered and her lip movement exaggerated as she mouthed the word. ‘…affair. He had a mistress.’ Ignoring Gwen’s gasp she carried on. ‘To be honest, Gwen, it was the best tonic to revive our rather moribund marriage. Don’t look so shocked.’
Gwen was rooted to the spot, lost for words. Fortunately Daphne wasn’t.
‘I caught them at it. Not actually having sex but kissing. It was when he was captain of the golf club. She used to go into the club a few times a week to do secretarial work: typing up minutes and match notifications for the notice board, that sort of thing. Tarty little creature. Bottle blonde. Not very bright. Much younger of course. They always are, aren’t they?’
‘I wouldn’t know. I am stunned. I’d never have thought Sandy would do that to you.’
Daphne shrugged. ‘Maybe Roger’s different. He worships the ground you walk on, of course. But he is exceptional. Most men given half a chance would stray. So it’s important not to give them a chance.’
‘What did you do?’
‘I told her to get her coat and go home and start looking for another job. Then I asked Sandy how long it had been going on and whether it was a full blown affair. He tried to pretend it was a spur of the moment kiss but he’s a hopeless liar. I told him that I didn’t give a fig about the scandal and I wanted a divorce. The poor wretch was beside himself. Absolutely terrified. The army doesn’t look kindly on that sort of thing from their senior officers and he was due for a promotion. And I like to think that it was a moment of madness, a midlife crisis. Men can be such vain creatures. So I made him pay. I got myself a new fur coat out of it and my favourite pearls – you know the three strand ones you always admire? Don’t look like that! Sandy had to realise that bad behaviour carries consequences. And anyway he likes buying me things. Why shouldn’t I profit? He was after all a very naughty boy!’
‘Why are you telling me all this? It’s none of my business.’
‘I’m telling you because it was a clarion call for me. Our…’ –again the words were mouthed rather spoken – ‘…sex life was a bit stale. Once a fortnight in the missionary position. The usual. You know.’
Gwen was tempted to say no she didn’t and once a fortnight sounded quite a lot, but she kept her lip buttoned, fascinated by her friend’s confession.
‘First of all I exiled him to the guest room. Wouldn’t let him near me for a few weeks until he was absolutely abject. Putty in my hands. Then I thought if he wanted an affair he could jolly well have one – as long as it was with me! I decided we could add a little spice to things by going away. We acted as if we weren’t married and were having an affair. The classic dirty weekend. I booked us a suite at the Ritz. Nothing but the best, darling. We went at it as though we were newlyweds again. After that we met up regularly in hotel rooms, pretended to be other people. Sometimes he’d pretend to pick me up in the hotel bar. Role play, I suppose you’d call it. And goodness me, my dear, it was like a tonic, a breath of fresh air in a stale marriage. I’ve learned a few new tricks I can tell you! Trouble with this damn war is we’re both too jolly busy to do weekends away any more. I can’t wait until it’s over!’
‘Please don’t!’ said Gwen, laughing. ‘I think you’ve told me more than I needed to know already.’
‘Food for thought, Gwen. Food for thought!’
‘Well, even if I wanted to, I can hardly act on your advice. I don’t even have a clue where Roger is, much less when or whether I will even see him again.’ Her voice made a little choking sound.
Daphne leaned forward and patted her on the knee. ‘Don’t worry, my dear. I'm sure Roger is more than capable of looking after himself. This war is a bloody pain. Wretched. If I could be in the same room as Hitler I’d poke his damn eyes out with a knitting needle. And that’s just for starters.’
As Gwen walked home she thought about what Daphne had told her. She had always assumed her friend had similar views on marriage to her. The last twenty-four hours had proved to be a revelation and she was beginning to realise her own marriage was not as typical as she had believed.
Sunday Roast with the Underwoods
Aldershot
Mrs Underwood and Ethel had invited Jim, Greg, Mitch, Scotty and Pete to share a Sunday lunch with them to celebrate Jim’s birthday. In the weeks since Greg Hooper and Ethel had met, he had not only charmed Ethel but had her mother eating out of his hand.
‘I can’t promise you a feast, boys. There’s nothing much to be had in the way of a good joint. It will have to be mutton but I’ve saved up some coupons and the butcher owes me a few favours so there’ll be plenty for all of us. Ethel and I will do our best to make it a real family occasion for you boys. You must be missing home. Sunday dinner here has to be a bit cosier than eating it in a great big canteen.’
‘We can’t have you using up your rations on us when we get much more food than you civilians,’ said Jim. ‘We’ll make sure we do our bit, won’t we, buddies? You work in the stores, Scotty – any chance of liberating anything tasty?’
‘There’s a delivery of chocolate bars due this week. I have a funny feeling it will be short one or two boxes. And tinned pears. And I’m pretty sure a bottle or two of spirits will have got broken in transit.’
They all laughed, then Greg leaned forward and said, ‘I’ve never been too keen on mutton and I have an idea how we can lay our hands on some poultry. I think we can rustle up a couple of chickens, Mrs Underwood.’ He reached his hand out to hold Ethel’s.
Ethel threw him a mock frown. ‘I hope you’re not going to do anything that will get you into trouble, Greg. I don’t want you to miss the meal because you’ve been locked up!’
Greg winked at her. ‘Nothing’s going to keep me away from you, doll.’
Greg, Jim and Mitch left the camp on bicycles at ten o’clock in the evening, and headed through the dark streets away from the town towards a nearby farm. Their bikes were fitted with blackout lamps but the half-light was barely enough to show where the kerbs were. Fortunately there were no cars or lorries on the roads they cycled along. After a couple of miles, they left the bikes at the side of the road, climbed through a hole in a hedge and scrambled down a slope towards the dark bulk of some farm buildings.
‘I spotted this place when we were doing that cross-country run last week. Ther
e were hens running around everywhere,’ said Grass.
‘They’re bound to lock them up at night to keep them safe from foxes,’ said Mitch. ‘We’ll never get in.’
‘Don’t be chicken!’
Jim shushed them and signalled for them to stop. They squatted down beside a pile of logs. ‘Aren’t the birds going to make a racket if we do manage to break in? And how the hell are we going to carry them away?’
‘Thought of that.’ Greg waved a pillow case.
‘Hey, Grass, put that down. It shows up in the dark.’ Mitch was starting to laugh.
‘What the hell are we doing here anyway?’ Jim was having an attack of conscience. ‘It’s stealing, whichever way you look at it – and we should have worked out a proper plan.’
‘I’ve got it all worked out.’ Greg started to move forward and Jim and Mitch reluctantly went after him.
They were within a few feet of the large shed when Mitch tripped over a metal bucket and sent it clattering across the stone-paved yard. The clanging was amplified by the darkness of the night. Instantly a pair of dogs began barking, so loud that the three men imagined it could be heard back in Aldershot. Without another word, all three turned on their heels and ran, stumbling and tripping back towards the road.
A deep voice boomed, ‘Who’s there?’
Jim tripped over and rolled on his side against the hedge to ensure the farmer couldn’t make out his shape in the darkness. He could hear Greg and Mitch on the other side of the hedge, crawling along the path towards the bicycles. Afraid of being spotted, Jim lay motionless and waited.
A woman’s voice came from the doorway of the farm. ‘What’s going on?’
The farmer called back. ‘Can’t see a thing. Must have been foxes. Knocked a bucket over and set the bloody dogs off. Go back to bed. I’ll check the barn.’
The door closed and Jim crawled along the side of the hedge until he found the gap. He ducked through, cursing as he scratched his cheek on some thorns, and ran along the road to where his bike was lying on the verge. There was no sign of Mitch and Greg. ‘Rotten bastards!’ he muttered to himself.
