by Clare Flynn
The next afternoon Jim was lying on his bunk reading a comic book someone had left in the mess room when Grass burst into the dorm, a huge grin creasing his face. He slung a sack down on the floor. Jim raised his brows then laughed as he saw the scrawny necks of a couple of chickens sticking out of the burlap.
‘You crafty bastard! How the hell did you pull that off?’
‘Doing it in broad daylight on my own, when the chickens were scratching around in the open. I waited till I heard the old woman call the farmer in for his dinner then I pounced. A quick snip with the wire cutters, hand in, grabbed one, a quick wring of the neck then I grabbed another. They never knew what had hit them. I even took the trouble to join the wire back up. I bet the old fool doesn’t notice they’re gone for days.’
‘I can tell you’re no farmer, Grass,’ said Jim, shaking his head. ‘Every farmer worth his salt knows his stock. Specially with a war on. And you do know it’s theft?’
‘Not theft. More like fair exchange. I left the old boy a couple of chocolate bars, a tin of peaches and an orange under a bucket. Reckon he got a good deal, eh.’
The Underwoods were overjoyed when the Canadians arrived with the pair of chickens. Although the birds looked a tad scrawny and undernourished, Mrs Underwood managed to stretch them into a decent meal with the accompaniment of stuffing, a few sausages and plenty of roast potatoes and carrots. The sausages seemed to be made principally of breadcrumbs but they tasted well enough. Ethel had made a trifle with the tinned pears Mitch had provided. The meal was washed down with beer and a tot of brandy to accompany the pudding. While far from feeling replete, the men hadn’t enjoyed a meal so much since arriving in England.
Jim was happy not to be spending the day in the camp. But the homely setting made him feel nostalgic for Ontario. Mrs Underwood reminded him of his mother, who always made a big effort on special occasions such as birthdays and Christmas and spent days baking, stirring and chopping. He looked round the table. Greg and Ethel were side-by-side, opposite him. He couldn’t imagine looking at a woman again the way that Hooper was looking at his girl now. Alice had destroyed his ability to trust, killed his capacity to love, stamped on his belief that he would ever have a future like the one he had once hoped for.
‘What’s up with you, pal? You look miserable as sin. Grass slapped him on the back. ‘Come on, my friend. Let’s have a smile, eh.’
They cleared the table and carried the dishes back to the kitchen, where Mrs Underwood insisted on being left to herself to wash them up.
‘I’m not letting you lot loose on my best wedding china. Not likely. Now get yourselves out of my kitchen. You’re making it look untidier than it already is!’
They returned to the small front parlour and as it was starting to get dark, made sure the blackout was in place. Mitch sat down at the piano and they gathered around to sing. Their harmonies were interrupted when they heard the front door open and Joan walked into the room and flung her coat onto the sofa. She had on the floral dress she’d been wearing on the day of the tea party.
‘What a racket!’ she said. ‘I bet they can hear you in Berlin.’
Jim hung back, embarrassed. He should have realised she would be turning up at some point. She and Ethel were as inseparable as Mutt and Jeff.
Joan walked towards the piano and Jim wondered what kind of mood she’d be in today. He moved away from the group and went to sit down on the sofa but Joan stepped in front of him, grabbed him by the lapels pulled him towards her and planted a kiss square on his lips. ‘Happy birthday!’
The other men began to wolf-whistle and Jim pulled away, aware that his cheeks were reddening. Joan narrowed her eyes and pushed her lips together. Had he hurt her feelings? But she shouldn’t have kissed him like that in front of the others as if she were trying to humiliate him. He looked at his watch and wondered if he could make his excuses and go. He could plead feeling unwell. Too much brandy?
Before he could make a move, Mitch pulled a pack of cards out of his pocket and suggested a game of rummy, which was greeted with enthusiasm by Ethel, and Jim found himself sitting at the table as Greg dealt out the cards.
As they played, he tried to study Joan without her noticing, but every time he glanced at her she lifted her eyes and met his so he looked away. What was it about her that intrigued him so much, scared him so much? It wasn’t even as if he was attracted to her. Yes, she was pretty, but not as much as Alice and not as much as Ethel. He didn’t know her well enough to be sure if he even liked her. Their conversations had been one-sided in the pub that first time and he hadn’t paid much attention to what she was saying. Since then they had been brief and unsatisfactory, merely fragments. He could write what he knew about her on the back of his hand.
He examined his cards. He only needed the ten of hearts. He raised his eyes and then dropped them again when he saw Joan was watching him. Why did he let her get under his skin like that? And he was still puzzled why she was doing this to him when she was engaged to marry another guy. He began to wonder if this fellow existed.
As he was mulling this over, Ethel screamed, ‘Rummy!’ and slapped her cards onto the table.
Joan got to her feet. ‘I’m feeling a bit stuffy. I’m going for a walk.’ She pulled her coat on. ‘Coming with me, Jim? Make sure I don’t get lost in the blackout?’
Mitch made another wolf-whistle. Jim hesitated, then Greg said, ‘Go on, Jimbo. The lady needs an escort.’
He followed Joan into the narrow hallway and grabbed his greatcoat from the hook on the wall. When they were out in the street she took his arm. They walked in silence for a few minutes until she said, ‘Why don’t you like me, Jim?’
He stopped. Her arm slipped from his. ‘I don’t know what you mean. Of course I don’t dislike you. I barely know you.’
She made a snorting sound.
‘And it feels all the time as though you’re trying to get a rise out of me. Making fun. It makes me nervous around you. That’s all,’ he said.
He heard her give a half-laugh. ‘I make you nervous?’ she said. ‘You must know it’s the other way around.’
‘Please, Joan. Stop it. You’re doing it again and I don’t like it. I’m not in the mood. And I bet that soldier you’re engaged to wouldn’t like it either. If you were my girl I’d be mad as hell if I caught you flirting with another guy.’
‘But I’m not your girl and he’s not here, so what harm is there?’
Jim sighed. ‘You’re acting like a spoilt child, Joan. Stop it for goodness’ sake. Let’s talk properly for once.’
‘All right,’ she said. ‘What shall we talk about?’
Jim thought for a moment, searching for a safe topic. ’You can tell me about the ATS. Why did you join? What’s it like?’
She sighed. ’I joined because I couldn’t get into the Wrens. I wanted to do something for the war and my stepfather reckons they’ll bring in conscription for women before much longer and I thought I might as well get started instead of waiting until I had no choice. And I was working in a shop and hated it. A fish and chip shop. I always stunk of it. But there’s nothing much doing in a town that is basically just a garrison. It’s the army, shop-work or nothing.’
‘How long have you been in?’
‘Six months.’
Jim realised her arm was looped through his again. This time he didn’t object. ‘You like it?’
‘Hate it. I nearly left when I started off. All they wanted to do was humiliate us. They bullied us until we were too broken to stand up to them. That’s what the army’s about – well the British army. I don’t know about you Canadians. By the end of the first three weeks I wanted to run away. I hated the uniform. I hated the drills. I hated the blooming awful things they made us do. I had five solid days of cleaning toilets. Men’s toilets. Then down on my hands and knees scrubbing floors. The posh girls too. Not that there are that many of them – they all go in the Wrens or the WAAF. Better husband material there, they reckon. And be
tter uniforms. Yes, it’s no wonder the squaddies call us scrubbers.’ She gave a dry laugh. ‘How’s that supposed to help us beat Hitler? The only job I’m going to be qualified for when this war’s over is as a cleaning lady. Come back, fish ’n’ chips – all is forgiven!’
The streets were silent as they walked. It was late – and Sunday. Most people would be tucked away in their homes. They walked past the Ritz cinema. It was dark thanks to the blackout, as were all the pubs they passed.
In a sudden change of subject, Joan said, ‘Do you think Greg’s in love with my cousin?’
Jim smiled. ‘Head over heels. He told me he was going to marry her the first night he met her.’ Realising he had given away what Grass had probably intended as a confidence, he added, ‘Don’t tell Ethel that, please. I shouldn’t have said.’
‘Don’t worry. I think she knows. She feels the same. She wouldn’t shut up all the way home that night and she hasn’t stopped talking about him since.’
‘Do you think they’ll get married?’
‘If he asks her she’ll say yes.’
‘But when the war’s over he’ll be going back to Canada.’
‘So? She’ll go with him.’
‘What about her mother?’
‘Aunty Vi won’t stand in their way. All she wants is for Ethel to be happy. Who knows? – she may move out there herself one day. There’s nothing to keep her here. Except my mum, I suppose. They’re close.’
They had reached Manor Park and Jim nodded towards a wooden bench. ‘You want to sit down for a bit?’
‘Okay.’ She sat down, stuffing her hands into her pockets. ‘What about you? How do you like the army?’
‘It’s much the same for us. Bullying, shaming, abuse, insults!’ He laughed. ‘Actually you get used to all that quickly enough. It’s the boredom that gets you. We came over here to fight the war and we’re left cooling our heels in Aldershot. I wouldn’t mind but every other damn country in the British Empire is getting stuck in. But we’re treated like little tin soldiers.’
Joan was silent for a while, then said, ‘There was a murder in this park. Over there.’ She pointed.
‘Really? When?’
‘About twenty years ago. A woman working in a bank in the town got engaged to marry a clerk in the same branch. He was a fair bit younger than her. She jilted him and agreed to marry someone else. About a week before the wedding was to take place, the jilted bank clerk followed the couple to the park and shot her in the back of the head. Splattered her brains out. Then he shot himself.’
‘What a cheerful story.’
‘Hell hath no fury like a bank clerk scorned.’
She lit a cigarette and Jim watched the embers glow brighter as she drew on it. She cupped her hand over the top to hide the red glow.
‘If a fire warden sees you, there’ll be a fine to pay,’ said Jim and wished at once he hadn’t.
‘You think I don’t know that?’
‘Sorry.’
She took a long drag and then ground it out. ‘Spoilsport.’
Jim felt her shivering and without thinking put an arm around her shoulders. Joan didn’t push him away as he half expected her to do, but rested her head against his shoulder and slipped her hand into the pocket of his greatcoat where he could feel it resting against his thigh. They sat in silence for a few minutes, then Jim bent his head towards her and searched for her lips in the darkness. There was a faint smell of cigarette smoke on her mouth but her lips were soft when his touched them and kissing her felt natural. She returned the kiss. It was gentle, without passion but full of a tenderness that surprised Jim. He allowed himself to luxuriate in it, pushing away the thought that they shouldn’t be doing this.
Eventually they broke off and Joan leaned back into the bench. ‘This does keep happening, doesn’t it?’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.’
‘Well, thanks a lot.’ Her tone was tetchy.
‘I didn’t mean it that way.’
‘I know exactly what you meant.’
‘I meant I wanted to kiss you and I let myself kiss you but I shouldn’t. I got carried away.’
‘For heaven’s sake, Jim. Don’t run a post mortem. It was only a blooming kiss. Why do you have to dissect everything?’ She got up and turned up the collar of her coat, pushing her hands back into her pockets. ‘I want to go home.’
He trudged along beside her. They were walking faster now. Moving with purpose unlike the slow meander of earlier. Jim cursed inwardly at his stupidity. Why did he keep putting his foot in it? But it felt as if she were always wrong-footing him. He told himself he needed to keep away from Joan. The kiss tonight had felt different and he was aware that he was in danger of falling for her. A pointless mission.
When they reached her house she opened the door and wished him a brusque goodnight. The door was already closing as he was saying goodbye.
On the way back to the barracks he tried to examine his feelings. Was it all a reaction to what had happened with Alice? He had been rejected and maybe the flirtation with Joan was a subconscious ploy to prove he was still attractive to women. But what he needed was a girl who was free of complications. A nice unattached girl who would be happy to be taken dancing and to the pictures. The truth was that what he’d like more than anything was to be given orders to do what he came here to do. If only he could be sent overseas. Do his bit for the Empire and probably take a bullet in the process. But as he imagined it he realised he didn’t want to die any more.
Jitterbugging
Eastbourne
Pauline went twice a week to visit her grandmother in her old folks’ home. Usually she took the girls with her, keen to keep the elderly lady connected to the family. She worried that the war with its bombing raids, and the death of Pauline’s mother and grandfather had confused and disturbed the old lady. Today she asked Gwen if she would mind taking care of the little girls, as the baby had a cold and she was anxious not to expose the frail old woman to germs.
Gwen was unsure. She had no experience of small children. Nervous that something might go wrong or that the children would cry for their mother, she hesitated, then caught the anxious look on Pauline’s face and nodded.
‘You’re the bee’s knees, Mrs C. I don’t want to disappoint Granny.’ She turned to Sally. ‘Now you be good for Mrs Collingwood, Sal. And make sure you help her with Brenda.’
Five minutes later and she was gone. Little Brenda was playing happily in her playpen on the floor of the drawing room, but Sally sat, thumb in mouth, scowling at Gwen from the armchair where she was perched.
‘What would you like to do, Sally?’
The child stared back at her, her expression resentful.
‘It’s raining so you can’t go outside. Are there any toys you want to play with?’
Sally continued to suck her thumb, but her lip had begun to tremble.
Panic rose in Gwen. What to do? A large tear trickled down the little girl’s cheek and she whispered, ‘I want my mummy.’
Gwen looked about her, uncertain what to do. ‘Why not play with Brenda?’ The three-year-old was sitting in her playpen piling wooden bricks into a precarious tower.’
‘She’s just a baby.’ Then the tears bubbled up and were accompanied by big breathless sobs. Brenda looked at her sister and began crying herself. Gwen cursed under her breath. What was she going to do? Pauline would be gone for at least an hour and a half.
She scooped Brenda out of the playpen and sat her on her knee. ‘Shall we have a story, girls? What’s your favourite?’ She looked at Sally desperately. Sally just stared back at her while the tears coursed down her cheeks.
Gwen knew there were children’s books in the girls’ bedroom but she didn’t want to go downstairs to fetch one. ‘How about if I tell you a made-up story?’
Sally looked up. ‘What about?’
‘About a little girl who lived in a land faraway across the oceans.’ Gwen had no idea what the story would be nor i
f she would be able to retain the child’s interest. ‘The little girl had a magical power.’
‘What was her name?’
‘Polly.’
‘What was her magical power?’
‘She could fly.’
‘That’s silly. Girls can’t fly.’
‘Over the seas in India they can. But only if they have a magic carpet. All Polly had to do was sit on the carpet, say Abracadabra, close her eyes and the carpet would rise up into the air and take her where she wanted to go.’
Sally was now watching Gwen intently, so she carried on, weaving a story that involved a snake charmer and a talking tiger cub as well as a cache of buried treasure. As she told the tale, Brenda’s head was pressed tightly against her breast and she felt the warmth of the little girl’s body against her. After a few minutes, Sally got out of her armchair and came to sit beside her, leaning her head against Gwen’s arm, then her small hand reached out and took Gwen’s and the three of them sat there, curled together on the sofa as Gwen finished the tale.
So absorbed was she in weaving the story, that she didn’t hear Pauline come back into the room and was only aware of her presence when she said the words “The End” and Pauline began to clap. ‘I think you’ve got yourself a job, Mrs C. I’ve never seen the pair of them listen like that. And certainly not to my stories.’
Pauline reached out and took Brenda in her arms. ‘Time for a bath, girls. And I’ll tell you how Granny was.’ She threw a look of gratitude at Gwen and left the room. A moment later, Sally ran back in and reached up to plant a kiss on Gwen’s cheek.
Gwen sat on the couch, touched by the spontaneous show of affection and already missing the warmth of the children’s bodies against her. Their simple acceptance and trust in her had moved her. A surge of emotion rose inside her – a mixture of sadness and joy.
