When the other Lily Lagoons people came to the stable, Jeremy headed them off, telling them to go home to the camp, that he would join them later. He also headed Bridie off when she came after closing the bar. He told her that her father was in no fit state to go back to the hotel, that he would look after him.
Bridie asked, ‘Why are you doing this, Jeremy? You don’t like him that much.’
‘He asked me . . . as his old friend’s son.’
‘You didn’t like your father that much, either . . . nor Ireland . . . and England . . . which is what’s upsetting him.’
‘I assure you there’s no ulterior motive, my love.’
The endearment made her blink and blush slightly. But her voice was even: ‘I didn’t suppose there’d be a bad one. Only, you’ve always been so unmovable on principles.’
‘Maybe I’ve changed.’
‘That’s what everybody says. But I don’t believe it. They say that it’s because you were knocked about so. Did it make all that difference?’
‘Only so far as teaching me more reality of things.’
‘And what’s that?’
‘What a lot of questions?’
‘Why not, when . . . when we’re friends . . . even if you have been avoiding me.’ When he avoided her questioning eyes, she asked, fiercely, ‘Who were the bastards who hurt you?’
He shrugged. ‘Just people with a grudge.’
‘I’m sure you never gave them cause for grudge.’
‘Look at all the grudges I’ve built up here.’
‘Only by being yourself. Don’t stop being yourself.’
He smiled. ‘Can anybody really do that? But how’s Con?’
‘Latest letter from Jerusalem . . . of all places, when he thought he would be popping in on the old folks at home. Do you think our boy’ll get home all right if we lose the war?’
‘Who says we’re going to lose it? Anyway . . . how’re the kids?’
‘You’d’ve seen for yourself if you’d come up.’
‘Bring them down to the camp. I’ve kept away on account of all this business.’
‘Thank you for seeing Da through it. It’s had me worried.’ With a quick movement she kissed his lips, spun about, hastened away.
Jeremy went back to look at old Shame-on-us, found him asleep. He roused him: ‘Better get to bed, I think.’ He got him up, grumbling, supported him to a discreet little corner where ordinarily the blackboys slept who watched the horses of nights. There were two hide and sapling bunks. He lowered Shamus onto one, took off his shoes. Stretching out, the old man groaned, ‘How long, oh Lord, how long?’
‘Won’t be long now,’ said Jeremy.
But Shamus was asleep again. Jeremy left him, went down to the camp.
Next morning, at piccaninny daylight, Jeremy was back in the utility, with a vacuum flask of coffee and tablets. Finnucane partook greedily, muttering his thanks. Jeremy suggested driving him over to the hotel at once to clean up, and offered another day of his company watching with what he called the Noble Order of Beatrice Earwigs. But there was no tickling the old fellow. He groaned: ‘Shame on us for crackin’jokes at a toime loike this . . . wit’ them poor arrogant bastards goin’ jokin’ to the death av ’em, and ourselves it is suffering to see ’em humbled in the dust the way they humbled uselvin. Musha, God help us! How long ’twill it be lastin’?’
Of course it lasted for days more — long long days, which were, in the reality of this utter unreality, long long nights — out of each of which the bewildered Order of Earwigs emerged with the All Clear ringing in their ears, as the Sun rose on the smoking ruins of the lunatic side of earth, while setting here on what should have been sanity.
Black Friday.
Blacker Saturday.
As the sirens hooted the All Clear on Saturday evening, Finnucane, far gone in whisky, howled, ‘’Tis the keenin’ o’ the damned in Hell!’
There was no easy bedding him down tonight. Jeremy, with Darcy’s assistance, kept him in check till the crowd were gone. Then he got him into the utility and whisked him away out to Lily Lagoons.
Out there, Jeremy doped the old fellow heavily with Paraldehyde. Shamus was soon asleep, going off muttering of the shame of wishing destruction on a gallant enemy: ‘Huns they moight be in their way . . . but niver Squarehead childer-murtherin’ Huns loike av them others . . . on which bad cess, says I, says I . . .’
Finnucane was well recovered in the morning. Jeremy was for leaving him behind. Finnucane roared in protest. Nevertheless, he would have no more of the OBE Watch. ‘I can’t shtand anny more of it, Jerry,’ he declared, and went back to the pub and locked himself in so that no one would bother him. Being Sunday morning, there was to be a Naval-type religious service conducted by Captain Toby at the Hall to begin with.
Finnucane wasn’t the only one who’d had enough of it. A good half of those who attended the service refused to follow the Captain when he called the order for Action Stations again. They were for having Driver Porky Jones and his youthful fireman get up steam at once for heading back to Palmeston. ‘We can hear what’s going on there just as well as here,’ they argued with the Captain.
Before marching himself and his halved band of OBE’s off to the Racecourse, he roared at the faithless ones, ‘I tell you it’ll happen in the next twenty-four hours . . . because the weather report indicates it. You lousy lubbers . . . you won’t even have the doubtful honour of deserting in the face of the enemy, but bolting like bandicoots at the very moment of victory. I give you the Sailor’s Farewell . . . Goodbye and Bugger You!’
The deserters only snickered: ‘The bastards mad. It’s goin’ on for ever. We’ll all end up with him in the Loony Bin if we stop any longer. How long before you can have steam-up, Porky?’
They were in the midst of their arrangements for departure, when their attention was caught by an odd sound coming from beyond the railway yards westward, a squealing and moaning that caused some to exclaim, ‘Pigs!’ All popped out — to behold what must have been one of the oddest sights ever seen in that place of oddities: McDodds, clad in kilt and sporran, but otherwise as usual in white sleeveless singlet and sandshoes, swinging down the road to the river crossing, with true Gaelic swagger, playing his bagpipes, and actually followed by a small herd of pigs that must have broken out of Finnucane’s stye. What he was piping could be heard now:
Wha wouldna fight for Charlie,
Wha wouldna draw a sword,
Wha wouldna up and rally,
At our Royal Prince’s word . . .
Someone with the Scot strong in him declared, ‘That’ll do me!’ and marched swaggering away to join the pigs. Perhaps it was the hypnotic power of Scottish lunacy, that crying the Weal and Woe so eloquently through the bagpipes, which broke the sane resolve of the rest and in the moment had them pouring through the railway yards. Only Finnucane, locked in his office with his Tullamore Dew locked out of his mind with a wave of the hand, failed to respond.
Thus Action Stations were fully manned again. In the circumstances, Captain Toby could hardly object when McDodds seized every opportunity to take the initiative whenever belligerent musical expression was called for, having the advantage over the Band in not having to wait for the conductor’s beat. The anomaly of the fact that practically everything he played had its origin in defiance of much the same ruthlessness perpetrated against the Scots by the English as now was being dished out to them by their brother-Huns seemed lost on everyone.
But for all this brave showing at the start, the Action turned out to be much the same deadly monotonous thing of the past three days — the sirens wailing, wailing, the bombs a’whistling and a’booming, the guns crashing, the aircraft screaming dives to death — and the casual reporting — ‘Sixty-three for twenty-six. When will Jerry wake up and realise that not only can we take it, but have come to like it in a way? What’re we going to do of nights when this show’s over?’
When it’s over?
Yet
again the long night-by-day watch ended with the sirens’ happy hooting and a yawn from the Boy at the BBC — ‘Aheeee! Usual Jerry rekky downed . . . over Start Point this time. D’y’know, I do believe they do it deliberately, dropping in for a British breakfast of bacon and eggs. Speaking of breakfast . . . I do hope that last egg of mine survived the dirty big one that sounded awf’lly close to my digs. Don’t like ’em scrambled. Score again . . . sixty-three for twenty-six. How’ll you twist that round, Hermann, old boy, to preserve the carpets of Berchtesgarten? Be seeing you all at tonight’s show. Cheery-ho!’
If McDodds had led the weary crowd away with The Lament, it would have been more appropriate than his standing, as they straggled by, glaring his contempt over blowing cheeks, while piping them defeated off the battlefield as it were with Scotts Wha Hae:
Noo’s the dee and noo’s the oor,
See the front o’ battle loor,
See approoch prood Edward’s poower —
Chains and slavery!
Noo’s the dee and noo’s the oor,
Torch the Jure on Davie’s Toower,
Liberty’s in every bloo,
Death or Liberty!
McDodds played all off save one, and that one looking even dourer than himself: Captain Toby, who stood at the salute all through the squealin’ o’ it, and then, like unto Bruce, retired to brood alone in a darkening corner of the grandstand. McDodds, his defiance done, let his baggie collapse with a dreadful moan of drone-pipes, then tucking it under his arm, fairly sprinted after the mob. It wasn’t that he wanted to catch them, but to pass them; for warrior though he might be, he was a canny mon and not forgetful of the considerable business to be done with the campers at this hour.
Finnucane was in the bar to receive the dispirited mob, and although looking no less low himself, ready enough to try to revive them. He asked no questions. Anyway, the answer was there without the asking in the general assertion, ‘Off home straight after breakfast tomorrow . . . that’s for sure.’
No one drank much. In fact by 8.30 p.m., which was how they were telling the time again, not more than a dozen were left in the bar. The grand old last-night jag of the past evidently was a thing of the past.
Despite the quite large population, at the time the place was almost dead silent, the only sound being the soft cry of Prindy’s flute, as with Barbu and Savitra, he sat out on the front verandah of Barbu’s shop, playing a Hindu folksong, and Savitra’s little-girl singing:
Krishna-ah-ah-a you have throw too much colour water on me, on Radha,
On Radha-ah-ah-a,
That mean too much you love me,
Krishna, Krishna-ah-ah-a . . .
Igulgul, halfway up the sky, peeping in.
That mean too much you love me?
Perhaps the populace was listening, sick of the din of war and its glorification in brass-blaring and discordant squeal.
But Prindy stopped suddenly. No doubt but that even above his own music he had heard that strange sound first of everyone. He cocked an ear — as everyone soon was doing. It was coming from across the river.
‘Donkey,’ said Barbu.
‘No-more donkey,’ said Prindy. He put down his flute and ran.
Other people were running. Those who were nearer to the sound had caught its import. They were running towards the causeway to cross the river.
Chief Petty Officer Pickles, down at the Lily Lagoons Camp, said to the company he sat amongst, ‘That’s the Old Man . . . talkin’ through a megaphone.’
The strange braying came on a bit of breeze: ‘You lubbers, it’s on . . . the great battle’s on . . . action stations . . . action stations . . .’
‘That’ll do me!’ cried Pickles, and grabbed Rifkah’s hand and went racing.
McDodds was well behind the mob, having to change from pants to kilt.
Finnucane came last of all, having to put his money away. He found Jeremy with his household on the edge of the crowd packed before the grandstand, from which Captain Toby was bellowing through a horn he had torn from a loud-speaker, giving the preliminaries missed by his tardy crew:
‘One Thousand Forty Hours, GMT, warning system showed enemy formations, ten-plus, twenty-plus, fifty-plus, up to one hundred-plus, forming up over Calais and Boulogne. It’s a fine bright day, as I told you was forecast. The Hun’s out for the decisive stroke. He’s mustering a veritable Armada. Our boys are already up and waiting for him. Attention, all hands! Listening Watch commences.’ He reached for the whispering radio, turned the volume up.
Big Ben, unperturbed as ever, rang the quarter-hour: DING-DONG DING-DONG. The BBC Boy was still drawling, but with an edge of excitement to it now: ‘Last Sunday we thought we were for it, too, when he came over in daylight. But this time, evidently, he really means it, judging by what he’s putting into the air . . . everything he’s got, apparently. He must think we still sleep in of Sundays. Napoleon made the same mistake at Waterloo. Because it was a Sunday he thought the English would be caught napping . . . he, he! . . . excuse the pun. But, ’s’ matter of fact, friends, it was just that gave rise to our term Go Nap, which means to put everything you’ve got on one desperate throw, as poor old Boney did at Waterloo . . . and lost! Looks like Adolf’s going to do the same. But how could a man named Schicklegruber have any better luck than one named Bonaparte? Of course you know that Adolf’s proper name is Schicklegruber . . . or rather, I should say, that was his father’s name . . . Herr Schicklegruber. I wonder what he thought when he first set eyes on Adolf — if he ever did set eyes on him?
‘Anyway, here they come, according to observation reports, in one blundering mass . . . no attempt at feints, surprises, tactics. I tell you, Jerry’s not right in the head. Even on the ground he’s crazy, marching up and down and calling himself Superman . . . but at fifteen, twenty thousand feet up! Their bombers have got their fighters all round them. What for? It’ll be too late to tackle our boys when they strike. Perhaps they’re really there as a sort of gun in the back of the bombers, to see they really do the jolly old job. Adolf must have been getting suspicious of all those reports Aunty Hermann’s been putting in about finishing us off every night. Let’s hope Adolf’s come along with ’em to see for himself . . . because I’m pretty sure an awful lot of these aren’t going home again.’
‘Ah . . . things are happening! Over Canterbury. I’ve got a beautiful view. A glorious autumn day. There’s the Armada . . . like a black cloud in a golden sky. What a pity to break that nice formation up . . . but it’s happening. Our naughty boys are diving on ’em from way up . . . you can see the tracers . . . you can see the Jerry’s coming down . . . like red roses blossoming.’
‘Here’s some more of our boys . . . two . . . three squadrons . . . tearing ’em to pieces . . . our chaps breaking off to tackle groups of ’em single-handed . . . shootin’ ’em out of the sky . . .’
The voice broke off, to resume after a moment with a note of hysteria: ‘Too many getting through. Where are our chaps . . . where? Ah . . . coming in from the West . . . but only a single squadron . . . and all those Huns . . . Hurricane fighters I think . . . where are the Spitfires? But . . . by God! . . . the Huns are turning from them . . . the boys are into ’em . . . the Huns are blowing up with their bombloads!’
‘Parachutes now . . . white roses amongst the red . . . not paratroops . . . only homeless Huns. Lord, we’ll have to feed ’em . . . and sausages are so hard to get! The others’ ve gone . . . done a bunk . . . listen . . . the All Clear! How long’s it been? Ah, thank you, Big Ben . . .’
DING-DONG, DING-DONG . . . DING-DONG, DING-DONG . . . DING-DONG, DING-DONG, DING-DONG . . . DONG, DONG, DONG, DONG, DONG, DONG, DONG, DONG, DONG, DONG, DONG, DONG.
‘Dear old Ben . . . he never fails us. Now let’s see if there’s any news. Ah, yes . . . here it is. A bomb fell in the kitchen garden at Buckingham Palace. The King and Queen are at home, of course. This sounds a bit tall . . . but it’s here . . . it says that when Her Majesty saw the
mess, she said, “Well, it will save shelling the peas for dinner”.’
Here’s another. A whole Luftwaffe squadron landed with parachutes on the cricket green at Kennington, and surrendered to the men in the pub there. The publican was going to make it drinks all round . . . only their squadron leader was silly enough to say that the English can’t make beer like the Germans. I told you they’ve got no brains . . . even on the ground. Yes . . . and one of our own boys, coming down by parachute, landed stern-first in a dustbin at Chelsea. They didn’t take him to hospital . . . but to a plumber . . .’
Finnucane, at Jeremy’s shoulder, drew a shuddering breath, turned away. After a little while, Jeremy slipped away after him. Finnucane had brought a bottle of whisky and planted it in one of those bunks. Jeremy caught him swigging from it, but said nothing, merely looked, then went and seated himself and poured a brandy. Shamus came to join him, bringing the bottle, sat down with a gusty sigh, but not to drink then. He dropped his silver head to a hand and groaned. Neither spoke.
The BBC dismissed the war for the time, put on another announcer, who did the proper British Sunday midday thing and played light classical music, all of it German, on which occasionally he commented with deep respect for the composers, however, rather spoiling it for those Germans who might be taking comfort from it, by including a couple of Jews without bothering to differentiate. The Earwig Watchers weren’t much interested. For the most part they crowded the bar and the eating booths.
Finnucane finished his whisky rather quickly, and took to Jeremy’s brandy. All he had to say was an occasional, ‘I wonder will there be anny more of it?’ Jeremy’s only answers were shakes of the head.
Then Big Ben chimed the hour again — then struck: DONG!
Not for old Ben to break with tradition and give the twenty-four hour time of Thirteen.
It was like a talisman that stroke. Out of its over-tones seemed to grow the wail of the sirens again: Oweeee, oweeee, oweeee!
Poor Fellow My Country Page 215
