Barbara said yes so wearily that Sis looked at her with concern.
‘Bad day?’ she asked.
‘Too many rockets.’
‘Never mind,’ Sis comforted. ‘It’s Thursday. Dreamers and schemers day. See you at the meeting. Keep yer chin up. Don’t let the buggers grind you down.’
So Barbara struggled on through the rest of the day, keeping her chin as high as she could, and at last the long shift was over and she could get ready for the evening and cut across to Sis’s flat and hunt for that blue file. She lit the fire ready for Sis’s return and washed the breakfast things and tidied the newspapers into a pile, and then it was only the file to find and she could be off. At that moment the doorbell rang.
She was too weary to feel surprised or pleased that it was Victor on the doorstep.
‘Oh,’ she said flatly. ‘Thass you.’
He was so thrilled at the sight of her, bright and bold in her scarlet sweater and the navy-blue slacks she used to wear at the Saturday hop in Lynn, that he forgot about the rocket. ‘Brought you a little present,’ he said, holding out the carton of eggs and the butter.
She recognised the value of the gift but she hadn’t got the energy to respond to it. ‘Thanks,’ she said in the same flat voice. ‘You’d better come in then I s’pose.’ It was too cold to stand and talk on the doorstep.
He followed her, worried by how down she was. ‘You all right?’
She said yes, but it was as if she hadn’t heard the question.
‘Thought you’d like to go to the pictures,’ he offered as she led him up the narrow stairs.
‘What?’
‘Pictures,’ he repeated. ‘You an’ me and the others. That’s Thursday.’
She’d forgotten that Thursday used to be their night out. ‘I got to look for a file,’ she said as she led him into the kitchen.
He put his presents down on the table and tried a joke. ‘Oh well then, if you got a file to find, I’ll tek Betty an’ leave you behind. Hark at me! I’m a poet an’ I don’t know it.’
‘I’d rather you didn’t talk about Betty,’ she said, and now her voice was cold. ‘If you don’ mind.’
‘Oh my!’ he said, his face bold with the success of his joke. ‘Don’ tell me you’re a-gettin’ jealous. Not of our Betty. Naughty, naughty!’
She was stung, suddenly and to such rage it made her shake. ‘You’re so stupid!’ she roared at him. ‘No, I hain’t jealous. You just leave her right out of it, thass all. Right out of it!’ And when he grinned at her annoyance, ‘You hain’t to talk about her! I won’t have it!’
He wagged a finger at her, still teasing. ‘Naughty, naughty!’
It was too much. ‘Oh!’ she roared at him. ‘You’re so stupid. You’re so bloody stupid. She’s dead. Don’t you understand? Dead! I shan’t never see her again.’
Now he was confused but he fought back automatically. ‘Don’t holler at me, gal,’ he bristled. ‘It hain’t my fault. I didn’ kill her.’
‘I never said you did. Just don’ talk about her.’
‘But how did she … ? I mean …’
‘That bloody rocket,’ she shouted. ‘Now d’you understand?’ And she burst into tears.
Tears he could cope with. He hadn’t watched B movies all those years for nothing. He sat her down, produced a clean handkerchief, gave her a shoulder to cry on, found her a cigarette and lit it for her. ‘I’m ever so sorry,’ he said. ‘That’s awful.’
She cried for a very long time. ‘First Norman and now her. There’ll be nobody left. An’ they’re planning Christmas as if everything were normal. I can’t bear it. We’re going to have a goose with one leg, if you ever heard of anythin’ so ridiculous.’
He couldn’t see why they didn’t get an ordinary goose with two. So she explained what it was, smiling for the first time that evening. ‘Thass a leg of mutton with some stuffing in it,’ she said. ‘Heather’s trying to cheer us up.’
‘Tell you what,’ he said impulsively. ‘How about if I got you a real goose?’
She was impressed by such an offer. And tempted. A real goose, she thought. Imagine that! A real goose an’ apple sauce. A proper Christmas dinner. That would cheer them up. ‘Could you?’
‘Oh yes,’ he said with just the right blend of modesty and importance. ‘I got contacts. I could bring it over Christmas Eve.’
‘Not here though. I’m living in Childeric Road now.’
‘I’ll bring it there then. And then you an’ me could go dancin’ up West maybe. The Lyceum’s a good place.’
‘No,’ she said as she blew her nose on his handkerchief. ‘I can’t face dancing. Not yet.’
He didn’t push her. ‘No,’ he said. ‘’Course. I can see that. What about the pictures then? Not here, ’course. Up West. Somewhere you ain’t been before.’
She thought about it. She hadn’t been out since … An outing would be nice if it was well away from New Cross. She’d have to keep it a secret from Heather, of course, because she couldn’t face a lot of arguments about it. But they could meet at the corner of the road and she could say she was going with a friend from work. I’ll give these eggs an’ things to Mabel, she decided, otherwise they’ll know he’s come back and there’ll be ructions. I’ll think of some explanation for the goose later on. ‘Thanks,’ she said at last. ‘I’m not promising, mind, but I might like that. It’s possible.’
So the deal was done and he was as good as his word. That Christmas Eve, when Bob and Heather were out doing their last minute shopping and Barbara was giving the kitchen a last minute sweep through, he arrived at the corner, as they’d arranged, and sounded his horn. And when she went down to signal to him that the coast was clear, he walked in with the biggest goose she’d ever seen.
She left it on the kitchen table with a note propped up against the white feathers of its breast.
My contribution to the feast. I have gone to the pictures. Will buy apples for the sauce on my way out. Will help you pluck and pull it in the morning.
Love, B.
Then she and Victor went up to Leicester Square to the pictures. And there, in the anonymous crowds and swept along by the loud, improbable fantasy on the screen, she lost her unhappiness for an hour or two and forgot the rockets and the rations and didn’t think about Norman or Betty until she was out in the dark of common night again.
‘That takes you out of yourself, the ol’ pictures,’ Vic said, as they walked back to the car.
‘Thass what Ma say,’ she remembered.
‘She got a lot of sense, your ma,’ he said. ‘Leave your troubles behind for an hour or two. No harm in that.’
‘No,’ she agreed. ‘There hain’t.’ That was just a rest, time off, a bit of fun. What she needed.
‘How about next week?’ he hoped, encouraged by how relaxed and happy she seemed to be. Strike while the iron’s hot, sort of thing.
This time she didn’t hesitate. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Why not?’
Chapter Twenty-Three
The essence of roast goose pervaded the house that Christmas morning, rising in every room in a succulence of promised pleasure, sending luscious traces down the stairs to entice the newest arrivals, at its most mouth-watering in the kitchen, where it roused hungry anticipation and delectable memory in equal measure. But it didn’t do Barbara any good at all.
She and Heather had been up at six, to pluck, pull and stuff their precious bird, and when Mabel and the girls arrived just after nine to see if they could give a hand, they were busy cooking vegetables and running back and forth to keep an eye on the pudding which was boiling in the copper in the bathroom. But despite their hard work, there was an uneasiness between them, a determination to be sensible about this Christmas, an awful enforced jollity that was as sharp as thorns in a holly bush.
The Connellys were spending Christmas with their daughter and, before they left that morning, they’d told Heather she must feel free to borrow anything she needed, so Joyce and Hazel were
set to work at once to carry four extra chairs upstairs, with strict instructions that Hazel was to take care of her ribs. And Heather tried a joke.
‘Just as well they’ve gone away,’ she said, ‘or God knows where we’d have all sat. We’d’ve been in one another’s laps.’
Ordinarily a remark like that would have led to all sorts of suggestions and a lot of happy teasing but this time it fell so flat they didn’t even smile at it. Mabel said ‘yes’ bleakly and the two girls simply turned away to set the table, with a sheet for a tablecloth and every piece of glass and china that Heather possessed. Then they did their best to make amends for not appreciating her joke and spent a long time telling her how pretty the room looked, until the men came back from the pub and rescued them, bearing two whole bottles of wine ‘to add to the feast’. And the goose was served.
It was a splendid bird and cooked to perfection, but just as Bob was carving the first slice, Mabel sighed and said, ‘Our Betty would have loved this. She was always a one for poultry.’ And before they could comfort her, her eyes were full of tears.
Sid leant towards her to pat her hand. ‘If she can see us now, she’ll be saying “What a lot a’ porkers!” D’you remember her on that picnic? “What a lot a’ porkers!”’
It was a vain attempt. They were all too cast down to enjoy the meal, rich and special though it was. ‘Not too much for me,’ they said, as slices of goose were offered. ‘Just a little.’
That was a mistake, Barbara thought, looking at their meagre portions. I thought it would make a lovely meal and cheer them up but I’ve made things worse. And she ate, feeling as bleak as all the others.
As the plates were being cleared, Sid tried to cheer them with praise. ‘Best dinner I’ve had in ages,’ he said, patting his stomach. ‘An’ we got our Barbara to thank for it I hear.’
‘Yes,’ Mabel agreed, making her own effort. ‘It was lovely, Barbara. I never thought I’d be eating goose this Christmas. Where on earth did you get it?’
The question jerked Barbara from her unhappy thoughts but cautious with grief and disappointment, she didn’t tell them the truth. She was aware that Heather was looking at her quizzically and that Bob was looking at Heather uneasily and the two glances alerted her. She couldn’t tell them it had come from Vic. Not now, when they were all so ill at ease. Not ever probably. ‘I’m a country gal, don’ forget,’ she temporised. ‘I got friends.’
‘Well tell ’em we appreciate it,’ Sid said. ‘Best dinner we’ve had in ages.’
‘Was that where you got the butter, our Bar’bra?’ Hazel said.
‘What butter was that then?’ Heather asked, her face suddenly sharp.
‘Half a pound a’ butter an’ six whole eggs,’ Hazel told her. ‘Real eggs with shells. Not dried. We had ’em fer supper. They was lovely.’
‘Fancy!’ Heather said, looking a challenge at Barbara. ‘You’ll be setting up as a grocer if this goes on. We shall have to register with you.’
‘Time to put the wireless on,’ Sis said, intervening before they could start to quarrel. ‘Or we shall miss the King.’
‘You’re right,’ Bob said, thankful for her good sense. ‘Look at the time.’
So the difficult moment passed, because they only just had time to tune in before the Christmas broadcast began. The announcer was Frank Gillard, the BBC correspondent. ‘Lovely voice,’ Sis approved. ‘I like a man with a good voice.’ He began by telling them he was with the British Liberation Army ‘somewhere in Germany’ and then revealed that he was actually the guest of the famous Desert Rats.
The announcement electrified everyone in the room. ‘That’s Steve’s lot,’ Heather cried. ‘That’s the 21st Army. Oh Bob! He’s with our Steve.’
Bob held up a calming hand. ‘Shush! Let’s listen.’
‘… in a local Gasthof,’ the announcer was saying. ‘A fine hotel, typical of the sort of building you find in this region. The battalion has commandeered it for the festivities.’
At that point there was a burst of cheerful laughter in the background, young male voices, guffawing and giving an ironic cheer.
One of them could be Steve, Barbara thought, yearning for him. Hearing their voices like that made him seem suddenly close to her, as if she could put out her hand and touch him. Oh my dear, dear, darling. If only …
The announcer was still speaking. It was a signal honour to speak on the wireless just before the King’s speech, especially as this could be the last Christmas of the war – more cheers – so the soldier who had been chosen had to be one of the Desert Rats, one of the men who had fought through Africa and Italy and were now blazing their way into Germany. It gave him great pleasure to introduce Corporal …
Corporal? Could it be?
‘Corporal Pass of D company. Corporal Pass.’
Barbara’s disappointment was momentary. Not Steve, but it could be one of his mates. And if it was the 21st Army, he could be there. He could be one of the men who were cheering. If she listened hard she might hear his voice. Oh what a wonderful thing that would be, to hear his voice again.
Lusty cheers preceded the corporal’s speech, beer mugs were waved until the beer slopped over, flushed faces shouted encouragement, the wooden tables were thumped until they were in danger of toppling.
‘You tell ’em, corp!’ Dusty called out. And he was cheered too.
A full day’s holiday, away from the campaign, inside a warm hotel, with nothing to do but eat and drink and sing a few carols to pay for the privilege, was such luxury they were quite light-headed. They’d explored the place as soon as they took it over, decked the walls with great branches of holly and evergreens, rearranged the furniture, commandeered the bedrooms and found so many kegs of beer down in the cellars that they couldn’t have drunk it all if they’d been there till doomsday, although they’d put a fair bit away while they were waiting for the broadcast to begin. Now, with the regimental band playing and the smell of cooking rising pungently from the kitchens and everybody saying this was the last Christmas of the war, they were drunkenly and ridiculously happy. It didn’t matter what Corporal Pass was saying, nor what the poor stuttering King was trying to stumble through, it was Christmas and the war would soon be over and they were alive and winning.
The band had struck up the introduction to the first carol and the producer had appeared to urge them on. ‘Now then chaps. “Hark the Herald” on the count of three. Lots of sound. Belt it out.’
And belt it out they did, bellowing the words as if they were a battle cry and not a Christmas hymn. ‘Peace on earth and mercy mild. God and sinners reconciled.’
The deep-throated sound rolled up into the beams of the dining hall. ‘Born that man no more may die.’ Amen to that, Steve thought. We’ve had quite enough killed. Now let’s get it over as soon as we can. March maybe. April. It couldn’t be long.
Dusty was sniffing the air. ‘D’you reckon it’s turkey?’ he asked under cover of the next intro.
‘I’m easy,’ Steve told him. ‘It’s proper food, that’s the great thing. It’s not coming out of a tin and we’re eating it off a plate.’
‘How many more’ve we got to sing?’ Johnnie Musgrove complained. ‘I’m starving. I could eat a horse.’
‘Don’t tempt them,’ Steve warned, laughing at him.
‘When’s the cabaret?’ Tom Ferguson asked.
‘Later,’ Steve promised. ‘After the grub.’
And later it was, when the broadcast was over and forgotten and they were all so well fed that their stomachs were distended. As the dirty plates were carried away, the band took up their positions again, the drummer gave an impressive drum roll and the doors at the far end of the hall were flung open to reveal a troop of extraordinary dancing girls, dressed like Carmen Miranda with dishcloths tied round their heads, crowned with huge bundles of camouflage in lieu of fruit, wearing bright red lipstick and huge paper earrings, and costumed in battle-tops and army boots and an inventive collection of skirts, ma
de of old curtains, old camouflage nets and old bits of parachute in every colour going, green and gold and pink. When they were four paces into the hall, the band struck up with ‘Hands Knees and Boomps-a-daisy’ and they began to dance, crashing their multicoloured hips into one another as though they intended to break bones. They were cheered to the echo.
Dusty was sloshing beer into all the mugs on the table with cheerful and drunken inaccuracy. ‘More for you Tom? Johnnie? Whet the ol’ whistle.’ But most of his mates were on their feet and scrambling to join the dance in an uproar of high spirits and sudden abandon.
They danced until they were exhausted, Hokey-Kokey, Lambeth Walk, drunken jive, as the heat in the hall increased and the band played until the sweat ran into their eyes. At eleven o’clock they ended with a long trailing conga, round the dining room and out into the reception hall and all through the rest of the Gasthof. By the time the leaders got back to the dining room the band had packed up their instruments and were enjoying a well-earned drink.
‘What a night!’ Tom Ferguson said. ‘They done us proud.’
‘So they should,’ Steve told him, handing cigarettes round. ‘We’re winning the war for them.’
‘How long d’you reckon, Corp?’ Johnnie Musgrove asked.
‘Late spring, early summer,’ Steve told him. ‘Once we’re over the Rhine, one more push should do it.’
‘An’ then home,’ Dusty said. ‘Can’t come soon enough fer me. Find mesself a bint, put me feet up, settle down. Just the job.’
‘One more push,’ Johnnie Musgrove-echoed, ‘an’ then home.’
The pianist was back at the piano, playing the introduction to another carol. ‘We done that!’ they called to him. ‘It’ll be Boxing Day in half an hour.’ But he just grinned at them and went on playing and after a while a group of his mates strolled across to sing along. It was a gentle carol and made a peaceful end to their hectic day.
‘In the bleak midwinter, frosty wind made moan,
Avalanche of Daisies Page 29
