The Consequences of War

by The Consequences of War (retail) (epub)

  She pulled away from him. ‘Hey, come up for air.’

  ‘Deanna – you’re wonderful! You aren’t just a lovely face, and good fun, you’ve got all the rest.’ His passion showed as he ran his hands over her body. He felt the signals of her response, and knew that she would be a good sport.

  ‘I don’t know what you’ve heard, but I’m not a pushover, you know. Everybody thinks that blondes are.’

  ‘I know you’re not, I know. I wouldn’t want a girl who was.’

  ‘Then stop that and be patient.’

  ‘How can I stop? You don’t want me to.’

  She made a good gesture at protest, pulling up a shoulder strap. ‘Not on the first date, Harry. Now kiss me goodnight properly and maybe we’ll go out again.’ She trilled a little laugh. ‘Maybe fix up a game of tennis.’

  ‘I thought girls comforted men on the eve of battle.’

  ‘Eve of battle, my eye. The war hasn’t even started yet. The only battle round here is the one I’ve been fighting the last ten minutes.’

  He let his voice fall into deeper huskiness. ‘I’m serious, Deanna. My folks don’t know yet, but I enlisted in the army today.’

  ‘The army? I should have thought Air Force blue would have suited you better.’

  ‘I’ve joined the Paras.’

  ‘Oh Harry, the red berets. But that means you’ll be going away before we’ve even had a proper chance to get to know one another.’

  ‘Then don’t let’s waste precious time. I love you, Deanna.’

  Walking home whistling. Thinking.

  She was a really good sport, one of the sort who told a man what to do. It was so enjoyable doing it with a woman who wasn’t coy, who would guide your hands and say when it was right. I thought for a second I wasn’t going to be quick enough. He remembered the tales of men who had found themselves with a wife and child for hanging on for just that second too long.

  For two pins she would have gone all the way. His stomach clenched at the thought of being caught like that. I wonder what Dad will find wrong with the Paras? Thank God for putting girls like Deanna on the world. Idly thinking of the women he’d had and imagining those still to come, he became aroused. I shan’t risk doing it like that again, it isn’t worth it for one and six. For the two-mile walk home, Harry Partridge had mature thoughts on pleasuring women like Deanna and the making of a more satisfying love. And on his father’s assured displeasure with something about the Parachute regiment.

  1939

  2nd September

  The BBC news on the wireless was the final straw. The reality of what was happening flooded upon her. When Hugh had left, she had been lighthearted at the prospect of being herself again. Freedom, she had thought, a little bit of freedom.

  When she had received her appointment from the Ministry, it was elation at getting such a post. And again she had felt excitement at the prospect of becoming somebody, no longer only a housewife. Hugh’s weekend soldiering with the Territorials had been like his going out with any of the Sports Club teams – boys going off for the weekend. Suddenly it was all in earnest. Overnight Georgia Kennedy’s world had changed.

  At nine o’clock, with the sun just going down, she sat in her garden. Little-Lena and Roy, pale and wide-eyed after the stressful, arduous journey from London, had been reunited with their parents. As a treat for herself, Georgia had bought a hundred box of Du Maurier and a bottle of gin, both of which she was consuming settled in a big basket chair.

  One of the bedroom windows next door was pushed up and Little-Lena’s quiet little voice said, ‘Mrs Kennedy?’ Georgia looked up. ‘Lena?’

  ‘I just wanted to say goodnight, Mrs Kennedy.’

  Georgia waved at the girl, and was moved by her vulnerable appearance, her newly-washed combed-down hair, scrubbed look and clean, pressed pyjamas. She was such a good kid today, thought Georgia, I’d never really noticed her before. ‘Ready for bed, Lena?’

  ‘Yes. Roy’s already asleep. I’m not tired.’

  ‘Really? I should have thought you were worn out. Perhaps you’re a bit overtired.’

  ‘I’m glad I can’t sleep. Dad said the same as you, that we had to come home from London because there will probably be a war in the morning.’

  Georgia had never felt at ease with children, not knowing, until today, in what language to address them. From Little-Lena she had learned that children were no more difficult than an adult if you spoke normally. ‘Your Dad was right to get you out of London. I should think Markham will be safe enough.’

  ‘Dad’s going to tell Grandma Gertie to come and live with us.’

  ‘Won’t that be nice for you – and her?’

  Mary Wiltshire’s voice was heard faintly from within the house.

  ‘That’s Mum, I’d better go in now. I’m not going to go to sleep though. I want to remember today. I expect tomorrow will feel different.’

  ‘Goodnight then, Lena.’ She had a sudden urge to kiss the clean, eager face of the girl and tell her that she had been a good kid today.

  ‘Goodnight, Mrs Kennedy.’ She pulled the window down to within a few inches of the sill, then added through the opening, ‘Mrs Kennedy? Thank you. I’m glad it was you came to London.’

  ‘Oh no, it’s thank you, Lena, for being such a help and not complaining in all that crowd.’ She blew the girl a kiss at which Lena put her own hand to her lips but shyly turned away without completing the action.

  When she lit another cigarette, Georgia found that her hand was trembling and aching. It was as though she could still feel the clutch of Roy’s fingers and the weight of their case and bags, with Lena struggling to help, as the three of them had made their way by every sort of crowded public transport across London and then home.

  As she and the children had pushed their way, it had seemed as though she tuned in to the tension of other passengers: servicemen with full kit and new uniforms; people with clumps of labelled children; men shepherding their families on to trains; all of them, as she was herself, concentrating on their own immediate harassment. At Waterloo Station, she imagined that she could hear a kind of silent whine from all those outwardly controlled people who were fleeing in all directions. In the moments between talking to the children with calm assurance, she had clenched her teeth and gripped the case so tightly that her fingernails had left weals in her palms.

  She was wondering whether to go indoors when the front doorbell rang. It took a second for it to register with Georgia that the long-legged caller in AFS uniform was Nick Crockford.

  ‘Oh Nick! It’s you.’

  ‘Here.’ He handed her a bunch of dahlias. ‘I thought you’d like them. Grew them myself.’

  ‘What lovely colours.’ She took the flowers from him.

  ‘You always liked them.’

  ‘But not you. You only used to grow them for competition.’

  He had brought her just such a bunch after her engagement was announced.

  ‘I’m a primrose man. You know… full of hope.’

  The memory of dahlias came back. When her engagement to Hugh was announced, Nick had picked every perfect bloom with which he had expected to win county prizes and had brought her the entire magnificent crop. She had pretended, and so had he, that it was just a bunch of flowers. It was not. And, knowing Nick, neither was this.

  The lessons in politeness drummed into her by her mother – who had spent some years in service and knew the ways of polite society – came to the fore and covered her confusion. Don’t keep callers standing at the door. Don’t let the neighbours know your business. Politeness costs nothing. Always give visitors a name and a chair. She seemed to have little choice.

  ‘Would you like to come in?’

  He stepped into the hall, ducking his head to miss the porch-lantern.

  The hall was an awkward place to be with an old flame. The sitting-room wasn’t the place, neither was the living-room. ‘I was just in the garden having a drink. Do you want one?’

 
; ‘Why not?’

  ‘I’ve only got gin and tonic, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Just gin.’

  She poured gin, he took it from her, went to the tap and added a dash of water.

  ‘Do you want to bring it outside? There’s another chair in the shed.’

  ‘I’ll be all right on the grass. It’s warm. There’ll be a storm in a few hours, though.’ He removed his AFS jacket, then sat down beside her rolling his glass between his large hands. ‘Nice place you’ve got. It’s the first time I’ve ever been inside one of these houses, never realized they had such long gardens. It’s nice out here.’

  Georgia realized that it was indeed very nice out here, sitting beside a second flush of scented bourbon roses, their perfume hanging heavy on the still air, pink blooms glistening in the purple gloam and still humming with late bees using up the last bit of daylight.

  ‘We don’t use it that much: gardening’s always been a bit of a chore to Hugh. I do a bit myself.’

  ‘I shouldn’t have thought there was enough here to keep anybody busy more than a couple of weekends a year.’

  ‘Hugh never gets the time… cricket all summer…’

  ‘Ah well, it would be, with a bit of tennis thrown in, and rugby in the winter, I suppose. Still the dedicated sportsman is he? I always thought he wore his whites as though he was going in for Hampshire. Not that he wasn’t a good wicketkeeper – solid as a rock.’

  She held out her hand for his empty glass, which he handed over without demur. She went into the kitchen and brought out a tray with gin, water and lemon slices. He was walking along the border looking closely at the rambling roses and clematis, hands in pockets as though in his own garden. Not that the Crockfords had ever had a garden as such but, like a lot of country families – like her own family too – they had a bit of land of their own. An acre or so on which there came and went, each in its season, every kind of edible plant and animal that would provide a meal or turn a sovereign at Markham market.

  ‘Bit of greenfly. I should have thought he was in the right place to get everything he wants for the garden… sprays and that.’

  She inspected a rose-bud. ‘I’ll get the syringe out tomorrow and give them a go over.’

  At another level, Georgia was thinking that it was a peculiar conversation to be having with an old boyfriend who appears suddenly with a bunch of flowers. But then, it had always been like that with Nick, who could rouse himself from a silence and suddenly say, apropos of nothing, ‘Did you know that there are these mushrooms in Mexico that can make people have visions. I should like to try that.’ He had been a spontaneous and quirky boy – which was why she had always paired off with him rather than with the lads who thought they could make an impression by larking about and talking dirty. Nick was always different, interesting. Living with only his war-shocked father, he often went about only casually physically cared for, but always mentally groomed and well-fed.

  Now they returned slowly to where the chair and tray on an empty flower barrel were awkwardly set out as for an amateur theatre production. He lowered himself on to the grass and lounged there as easily.

  Georgia felt too formal sitting on a chair, so she too sat on the grass. Asked, ‘How is your father these days?’

  ‘Having a bit of a rough time… you know, the war. Brings it all back.’

  ‘I saw he had a letter in The Times.’

  He raised his brows in interest. ‘The one supporting the Peace Women? It was a good letter – won’t do any good though. One man against the tide. This country’s got the fever, war looks too exciting and profitable.’

  ‘Still thinking of going in for politics when you grow up?’ He snapped a look at her and, seeing that she was smiling, smiled too. ‘That’s the trouble, I grew up and found it wasn’t worth the candle. How’s Mr and Mrs Honeycombe getting on in Scotland?’

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine. They say they like it, my Dad says they’ll only come South again in their boxes. But of course you can’t really tell from letters – they always were good at putting a face on things.’

  ‘Right. Everybody thought they enjoyed keeping the pub, thought they were fixtures.’

  ‘I know, but Ma hated it. She…’

  He joined in, grinning ‘…thought it was common.’ Georgia laughed. ‘You know my Ma, always afraid of behaving common.’

  ‘The eighth deadly sin to Mrs Honeycombe – Behaving Common.’

  He shook his head at her offer of a cigarette, but snapped the lighter and held the flame for hers, then inspected the lighter with interest. It had been his Christmas present to her years back. Before he returned it, he held it briefly in the cup of his hand, then ran his thumb over the ornate ‘G.H.’ he had paid sixpence extra to have engraved.

  Her present to him had been a Parker Pen which he had used to draw hearts on each of their wrists. What with having started to smoke, and their exchange of expensive gifts, they had felt very grown up. They had exchanged their first open-mouthed kiss. Now, threatened with confusion at the memory, she inhaled deeply and blew a stream of smoke at the sky, glad that in the growing darkness he would not see the flush of her cheeks. Why has he come?

  A memory of other times when they had been on the verge of falling in love, when they had lounged like this on grass, when they had sat like this with Nick suddenly going silent, withdrawing into his own thoughts as the rest of the gang of girls and youths were giggling and laughing.

  A memory too of how she used to be aroused by him. He was the first one who had, when they were both hardly out of childhood: not by fumbling hands or awkward kissing, nor as later on with Hugh – Hugh went in for close-holding, back-bending, stylish tango-dancing and hard, dry kissing. Nick could arouse her with some simple but erotic touch. Perhaps as the gang walked home along the dark lanes. That first time was when they were all larking about by the summer river, he had lifted the long pigtail she wore and had run his tongue in the groove at the nape of her neck damp from swimming. And once, when they were resting from pea-picking he had… Even as she thought of it her thighs tightened… he had suddenly buried his face in her lap and then said some lines of a sonnet in his ordinary voice, as though quoting poetry was an ordinary thing.

  She stole a quick glance at the profile of his hanging head with its beautiful thick curls worn longer than men had worn since the Prussian look took on. Nick Crockford’s hair had always been something for her mother to latch on to when she could find no other fault with him – I know what I’d do if he was my lad… have that lot off straight away.

  He had always been different. Difficult. Unpredictable.

  He wasn’t a suave and dashing sportsman like Hugh, nor did he have a safe, white-collar job like Hugh. Nick was a brown and weathered, large-fisted, broad-shouldered road-mender who, like his strange, intelligent, reclusive father was capable of doing whatever he chose in life. He had chosen to live as he preferred, doing physical work in the open air.

  And so had Georgia chosen – to live a very different life from his.

  They did not speak for a minute or two. Not an awkward silence, but an easy air of quiet between them.

  If she had found him attractive then, she found him ten times more attractive as a grown man.

  As Georgia listened to his breathing and watched his shoulder-blades rise and fall, desire, sparked off by the memories, spread up through her until she found her breathing shortened. Half-formed thoughts threw her into as much panic as they had when she was growing up. At a time when her Ma had said, ‘Nick Crockford is no use to somebody like you, Georgia – tell her I’m right, Thomas.’

  ‘Your mother is right, sweetheart, the Crockfords of this world don’t never amount to much.’

  ‘You’ve only got to look at his father to see that.’

  Feigning a shiver, she rose to her feet. ‘It gets really chilly once the sun goes down. Will you mind bringing in that chair, Nick?’

  She tells herself that she shouldn’t have drun
k so much gin. But knows that she would feel the same without the gin. She knows it, but does not like to admit it. Throughout her marriage it has been Nick she thinks of when Hugh’s body semaphores his desire, Nick she caresses, Nick’s weight pressing down on her in the dark. Nick who wears Hugh’s tweed jacket in the fantasy of making love in the afternoon. Nick who suddenly appears in her fantasies to make the kind of love Georgia desires and which she may not speak of to Hugh for he would be shocked at such excess in his lovely suburban housewife.

  She knows why he has come, and suddenly feels afraid, and in danger of persuading herself, because they have both been abandoned by their partners, that it would be all right to sleep with him.

  The same fear that she often felt before she met Hugh, when she and Nick used to go everywhere together. Fear of his seriousness, his way of making her face what she did not want to face – that she was like him, a peasant at heart, a country girl, the wild, wandering child that her parents had tried to smother with ‘niceness’, and piano lessons.

  The Crockfords of this world never amount to much.

  At the time, she had realized that if she did not get away from Emberley, she would find herself entangled in his life, find herself becoming like him, rejecting the things she was striving for: a car, a house in Markham, all sorts of dressy Sports Club dinners, pretty clothes, scent, and being somebody. She had not wanted to be a peasant, a country girl – had not wanted it then, or now.

  ‘I think you’d better go, Nick. The neighbours don’t miss much.’

  ‘OK. The balloon goes up tomorrow, I’m being posted on Monday.’

  ‘Nick! You mean in the forces? I thought you were a…’

  ‘A Conchie?’

  ‘Yes, you were always on about it.’

  ‘I am. I’m going into the National Fire Service.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Based at Southampton.’

  ‘Southampton will be a dangerous place, won’t it, with Fords and the docks? Mothers and children are already evacuating from there.’