It paid very little, barely enough to rent a room and buy essentials, but it was a start. Then one day the senior manager had forced himself on her in his office. It had been lunchtime and the office was empty. He had run his hands over her body and told her not to worry, he would help her out if she got into trouble afterwards. When she had fled in tears he called her a French tart who was leading him on. When she returned to her lodgings she found her suitcase in the alley and the landlady demanding more rent than she could afford to pay.
She went back to the society for help but the man had gotten there first and told his lies. He told them he had found her stealing. That door closed and she found herself adrift with no help and little hope.
One day, an older woman had taken talked to her while she was sheltering from the rain in a shop door. She brought her back to her flat. To start with, Denise was just happy to have a roof over her head and food. Then she was told what she needed to do to carry on enjoying the privilege.
Her mind had rebelled at doing; that, but desperate people do desperate things. She had lived on the street once, winter was coming and she couldn’t face that again. Despair was suppressed by the human need to survive so she forced herself to it out of necessity.
The first time was just a blur she had done her best to blank out. She had cried the entire time. It had been a sailor, she remembered that. His beard had scratched her face while he spent himself over her. He had given her double, out of guilt or some thrill of power she had no idea. Since then, the myriad faces had blurred into a homogeneous whole with time. Some were rough, some as young as her with a uniform and a puffed up sense of pride. She remembered the occasional boy who was going off to war with no idea of what war was and soothed him as he fumbled with her in the dark.
Denise had seen war. She had watched as units of men had marched to the sound of the guns, never to return. She had seen what war did to people, but she had told herself she would survive. Now she had a man asking her to stay and looking at her with sad eyes.
“I miss home,” he said simply, making this up as he went along.
“So do I,” she replied, her voice glum.
While they talked, Vos looked at her more closely. Her hands were fine and smooth, a contrast to his rough millers skin. Her green dress was of good material but was not as clean as it could be and the hem at the bottom was slightly frayed. Her coat was in similar condition, showing signs of being skillfully repaired where there had been a tear in the fabric.
He hitched his chair closer to her. She did not object when he took her hand and held it. Her eyes were wide like saucers as she looked at him, exploring his face. There was sorrow there, hardship, almost a haunted look behind his blue eyes. He had a strong jaw and a husky voice she found attractive.
She spotted the ‘Belgium’ flash on his shoulder and asked him about Antwerp. She had always wanted to go there but her parents hadn’t allowed it. He told her about life as a miller in the country, the early starts, the long hours to make your own flour before creating something. Bread was basic, the stuff of subsistence but he spoke with passion about creating it and she enjoyed his enthusiasm.
It felt good to actually talk to someone again. The recent months had seen her taste bitter hardship and mean spirited people. Piccadilly Circus was a battleground of sorts, with women staking their claim to parts of it. God help youbif you strayed off your patch because the retributions could be vicious. Life had become one big catfight and she had to use what passion and fire she had left to fight her corner and speak up for herself. It had left little room for niceties.
He prevailed on her to have some gin. She gasped, hating the stuff but drank it anyway. By the time they’d finished the bottle, the barman was throwing filthy looks in their direction and Vos saw they had outstayed their welcome.
On impulse he asked her to come back to the hotel with him. She was about to say no but she paused. The thought of a warm hotel room with clean sheets was far more appealing than being pressed up against a cold brick wall in a dark alley.
Denise was nervous going back with him. She was breaking a lot of the rules she normally set herself, but at least if something happened, she could leave. It was just one night she told herself and besides, it would take her hours to get home anyway.
He flagged down a taxi and they sat together, the slim girl and the tall man. Despite her objections he had put his greatcoat over her shoulders in an effort to keep her warm. He held her hands while he thought about what to do.
He paid off the taxi at the top of the street and they walked the short distance to the hotel. Vos put his finger to her lips and bid her wait just next to the hotels entrance. The heavy door was open but a double set of blackout curtains were across the opening to stop any light leaking out.
She peaked from behind the curtains as Vos went over to reception where the night porter was hunched over reading a newspaper. She had no idea how Vos was going to sneak her past him without being noticed. The porter saw Vos coming and put the newspaper to one side. He grudgingly got to his feet and plastered a smile on his face that went nowhere near his eyes.
“Good evening, sir.”
“Good evening,” Vos replied, his voice very formal. “Could I trouble you for some extra blankets? It was cold last night.”
“It’ll take a few minutes, sir. Do you want to wait or I could bring them up to you?”
“I’ll take them now. It saves you a walk upstairs.”
“Thank you, sir. If you’ll wait a moment I’ll just get them.” The porter disappeared through a service door and as soon as his back was turned, Vos motioned towards the entrance. Denise rushed in with long strides and went for the stairs. Vos had told her the room number so he could meet her there.
Vos was casually leaning against the reception desk when the porter returned with two blankets for him. He took them and went up the stairs. Denise was waiting for him and he let her into his room. He pulled the door to, dumped the blankets by the other door and then went back downstairs. He coughed into his hand and disturbed the porter again from his paper.
“My apologies,” he said, looking sheepish. “My colleagues aren’t back and one of them had the key to the room, could you…?”
Sighing in irritation, the porter got back to his feet and they trailed up the five flights to the top floor. The porter let him into Carter’s room with a master key attached to a chain.
He gave it a good forty seconds so the man was well down the stairs before he knocked once on his door. Denise peeked out from behind it and slinked into the other room with him. The curtains were open so Vos left the light off. Denise tripped over Carter’s suitcase on the floor and rubbed her shin.
He popped next door and gathered up his stuff, shoving it into his suitcase. Denise was in the middle of getting undressed when he came back in. She was in her slip, bending down to take off her shoes.
“Sorry,” he muttered. She was nervous and it made her angry. She thought she was past that. He went over to the chair and sat down. He became very focused on taking off his shoes, undoing the laces slowly and only looked up when he heard her slide into the bed.
She was in shadow, a dark shape. He picked up her slip and dress and laid them across the back of the chair, playing for time. She turned back the blanket and hitched across the bed slightly, patting the mattress.
Vos got in next to her, very self conscious as he lay down. Nothing had been said between them, the evening had just led to this. Now the moment was here he froze up. He found himself holding his breath, tense as a board. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, he could see her looking at him, her head propped up by her hand. Her lips glistened as she ran her tongue over them, then she leaned in.
She led the way, kissing him, moving slowly around his face, his neck. He gathered her into his arms and held her close. She cried out as he entered her and then they were moving together in sync, her hips meeting his, her fingers clawing at his back. The end came quickly and stars exp
loded behind his eyes.
She moulded herself to him, feeling the muscles of his lean frame. She draped one leg over his as she ran her hand up and down his chest. She snuggled, letting his warmth envelope her, driving the chill away.
The minutes dragged by and he lay there in the dark, holding her close. His arm circled her side and he could feel her ribs. She was so thin. He planted a kiss on the crown of her head and she tightened her grip on him.
Once he recovered his breath he reached over and fished his cigarette case out of his jacket and a book of matches. He lit a cigarette and they shared it, passing it between them. He asked her where her family were now.
“No questions,” she told him. “What about yours?” she asked him back, her tone teasing.
“No questions,” he said, smiling.
She slid on top, legs straddling him. This time was slower and she moved to a rhythm, back and forth. She leaned forwards, her hands either side of his head as she increased the tempo. Her breath came in short gasps. He held her sides and then his hands cupped her breasts, his thumbs teasing her nipples, causing them to stiffen. She groaned as she felt her stomach tighten, the muscles clamping down on him. The climax crashed over him like a wave and she went over the edge as well, shuddering as she ground her hips against him. He gasped and she chuckled, a deep throaty laugh. That didn’t happen very often for her.
They lay in bed for a few more minutes and then the moment passed. Her breathing returned to normal and her brain became practical. It was late, she had to leave. Duty done, she got out of bed and started gathering her things together. Cool air chilled the sweat on her skin and she shivered.
Vos sat up, leaning on one elbow. He watched her, lit up by the moonlight coming in from the window. Her skin was pale, almost milky white, her long tresses dark. She sat on the chair and started to dress. She pulled the pink slip over her head and worked it down her lean body. She brushed it down over her hips.
“Stay,” he asked. Her fingers stopped as she was buckling one of her shoes.
“Why should I?” she asked him. “I don’t even know your name.”
Abashed, Vos bit his lip.
“It’s Christophe, Christophe Vos.”
He held his breath. Her fingers remained still. She glanced up at him, chewing on her lip, the look between them electric. She straightened and crossed her legs, the toes on her left foot against the heel of her right shoe. She took it off again and closed the distance back to the bed. She hugged him close, kissing his face, her nails digging into his arms.
“All right, I’ll stay; till the morning.”
She got in beside him and he rearranged the blanket around them.
“Stay with me, Denise. Stay.”
“Till the morning,” she told him. “Then what? You go back to your war.”
He sat up, suddenly coming to a decision. He dragged his trousers over and rummaged in the pockets. He took a wad of notes from his wallet and offered them to her.
“Take them.”
Her eyes blazed. She snatched the notes from him and threw them across the room.
“I don’t need charity,” she snapped at him.
“Don’t be a fool,” he told her and instantly regretted it.
“Fool! Damn you!” She beat her fists against him.
“Denise, stop it. Stop it.” He held her close, trapping her arms while she thumped him over and over.
“Stop it,” he told her again, his voice soft and soothing.
“I never wanted any of this.” She collapsed into him, her voice breaking, her resistance spent. He kissed her and could taste the salt of the tears rolling down her cheeks.
“None of us did, Denise. None of us did.”
“And when you go...” she sniffed, her voice full of sorrow.
“We’ve got all the time in the world,” he told her.
Woods and Carter walked up the stairs of the hotel to their rooms. After Vos had disappeared on them they had gone on to a pub and then a clutch of aircrew invited them to a private bash at a hotel. Who were they to say no? They could have stayed longer but left at two in the morning.
“I don’t know where he is. Dozy bugger’s probably got himself lost,” said Carter. He fished in his pocket for the room key.
“You don’t think he’s gone AWOL do you?” wondered Woods, a sudden thought occurring to him. Carter groaned.
“Christ, I don’t even want to go there. Could he?” he asked, concerned.
“You saw him last night,” Woods reminded him. “What do you think?”
If Vos had gone AWOL they would be facing some hard questions when they got back to Amber Hill.
“I need a bath,” Carter muttered. “It was hot in the theater, too hot really.”
“I’ll get it started for you,” Woods told him.
Carter opened the door to his room. A black Oxford shoe clattered off the door frame and missed him by inches.
“Get out of it,” a voice shouted at him from the dark.
“Who’s that?” Carter asked.
“Who do you think?” Vos said in his accented English.
“We thought you’d got lost.”
“Well I didn’t.”
Carter tried to come in the room again and the other shoe hit the door.
“Hey,” Carter protested. “You’re in the wrong room.”
“No, I’m not.”
A girls voice laughed in the darkness. Carter shoved his head round the door and caught a glimpse of two people in the bed.
“Ah,” he said, suddenly realising what was going on.
“Exactly,” said Vos with a smug tone. Carter went next door.
“Who was that?” Denise asked Vos.
“My pilot.”
Woods heard the laughter and looked over his book at Carter as he came in the room.
“And you were worried he’d got lost,” he said sotto voce, with a sly smile.
“I stand corrected,” Carter admitted. “He’s had more success than us.”
“Ah, but we weren’t really trying,” Woods reminded him. There had been some women at the party. They had even danced with a few of them but nothing serious. He yawned and stretched. “I’m ready for bed.”
“Bath first. I need the soak,” Carter reminded him. He went into the bathroom and closed the door.
13 - The Stuff That Dreams Are Made Of
Carter waited until a reasonable time of the morning before going next door. He was loath to disturb the lovers but his fresh gear was in the room. He knocked lightly and cocked his head, straining to hear an answer. He knocked again and then tried the door handle. It opened and he went inside to find the place was empty. The bed was made and everything was neat and tidy. It was as if Vos and his girl had never been there.
There was a note on the bed. It was one sheet of folded paper with his name written on it. He picked it up, hesitant. He remembered the throwaway remark of the previous night about Vos going AWOL. He came back into the other room where Woods was shaving in the bathroom.
He weighed the note in his hand and opened it and breathed a sigh of relief as he scanned the lines of handwriting. Vos said he had things to do and would meet them at the train station at three. Woods came out of the bathroom dabbing his face on a towel.
“Problem?” he asked. Carter handed him the note. Woods grunted as he read it. “As long as he’s at the platform for the ride home.” He rubbed the towel in his ear, then he tried the other side, wiping away the last of the shaving soap. He got dressed, putting on a fresh shirt. “So what’s the plan for today?”
“I thought some shopping was in order. We can’t go to London and not get presents with Christmas round the corner.”
“Okay,” agreed Woods, “I’m game.”
They packed up, checked out and got a bus. Carter looked out the windows as they rode along. He saw a London, bowed but not broken. Every so often they passed a bombed out building. It was either a hole in the ground or an empty shell with no roof.
Boards covered the burned out remains.
Everywhere, shops had blast tape on the windows. Propaganda posters urged people on to victory. On a street corner he saw a newspaper seller hawking his wares. The hoarding said they had the latest news from North Africa. People threw their pennies into his cap and picked up the paper reading the headlines as they walked.
They went to a big department store. Carter got some nice scarves for his mother and sister. Woods bought a set of illustrated Beatrix Potter books for his mother. When they were finished they went to a gentleman outfitters. Carter had got the address from the back of the theater program.
The tailors was a small family run establishment. It had plush maroon carpets and wood panelled walls covered in antique photographs and daguerreotypes in frames. They were served cups of tea, scones and cucumber sandwiches while they were being seen to. Woods had to hand it to the English, they turned clothes shopping into an experience. He would have just gone into a shop, tried something on and bought it off the peg.
They spent the final few hours of their leave being measured. Carter got three shirts and a pair of trousers. Woods bought himself a new greatcoat. His issue one had never fitted well and was always very tight under the arms and across the chest. When he had complained about that back in Canada, he’d gotten little sympathy, one size fitted all. He drew a disapproving glance when he demonstrated the fit to the shop assistant in the dressing room mirror. Carter persuaded him to push the boat out and paid for everything with a cheque, waving away Wood’s objections.
“Call it an early Christmas present,” Carter told his navigator.
“Thanks, skipper, I appreciate it.”
They were assured their order would be delivered to Amber Hill the end of the following week. Job done, they moved on to a late and leisurely lunch.
In the restaurant, Carter caught a glimpse of a tall blonde being ushered to her seat and for a moment he felt a twinge of panic. It had been his fear that he would bump into Mary while they were in London but thankfully that hadn’t happened. Mary hated the theater and they hadn’t gone to any society parties. The chances of it happening were slim, but even so, it had been a worry that had played on his mind somewhat.
Maximum Effort Page 14
