About an hour along the road they reached a village, where there were more white flags draped across the front of the houses and no sign of any civilians at all. By this time they were actually feeling bored, for there was nothing for them to do but sit and smoke and wait to arrive.
Dusty had run out of cigarettes and was cadging from his mates. ‘Anyone got a fag? I’m gasping.’
‘You’re a pain in the neck,’ Steve told him. ‘Never mind gasping.’ But he reached into his pocket to find him a cigarette. And as he did so he touched the sharp edge of his mother’s letter. Time to read my mail, he thought and he picked up Barbara’s first because he’d skimmed it that morning and his mother’s would only be chit-chat.
Now he could take his time and enjoy her every word. How dear and close she seemed, describing this house they were going to live in. He’d have been content to live in a barn, providing he could be with her, and here she was telling him of a house with a garden and built-in furniture – even a refrigerator, he noticed. We are going up in the world. He read it all through twice and then, as their journey was still proceeding and still uneventful, he took out his mother’s letter and read that too.
The shock it gave him was so intense it drained the colour from his face. If it had been anyone other than his mother he wouldn’t have believed the words he was reading. But there they were, in her familiar looping handwriting, stark and uncompromising. ‘Your Barbara has been messing around with another man.’ It was like being punched in the stomach. She couldn’t have been. Not Barbara. I’d have known.
Dusty was leaning towards him, sharp face concerned. ‘You all right, corp?’
‘Yep,’ he said. ‘My mum rabbiting on, that’s all.’ Mustn’t make a fuss or I shall let the side down. ‘How much fucking longer are they gonna keep us on the road?’
‘Up an’ at ’em, eh corp,’ another man grinned at him.
‘That’s the ticket,’ Steve agreed. But he didn’t want to do anything except make sense of the letter. It couldn’t be true. She wouldn’t do such a thing. Would she? Not Barbara. It was as if his mother’s words had opened up a picture-show in his head, flooding his mind with images whether he wanted to see them or not – Barbara’s face in close-up, drowsy with kisses, the long line of her body gilded with firelight, her hands, setting a fire, pouring tea, weighed down by that heavy bouquet, receiving his ring, those quick feet tripping down the Town Hall steps, leaping towards the cottage, running across that market square, those gorgeous sea-green eyes, looking straight at him, smiling and loving. Oh she couldn’t do such a thing. Couldn’t. He wouldn’t believe it.
And yet as the TCV purred on along the German roads, other images pushed into his mind too. His mother had given him the name of the man. Victor Castlemane, she’d said. Wasn’t that the name of the feller Dusty’d flung out of the dancehall on the night they met? The one who’d shouted at her. He could hear his voice. ‘You come here with me,’ he’d said. ‘You’re my gal!’ Had she been? Was there something going on, even then? He’d been violently possessive. In fact I thought he was her boyfriend. I asked her. And she said no. But was she telling me the truth? Oh God, she couldn’t have been lying to me, could she? Not my Barbara.
The images intensified. Now she was dancing with other men, doing the jitterbug with a whole series of Americans, all chewing gum and handing her on from one to the next, now she was walking towards him arm in arm with that horrible Victor. Oh yes, he did remember him, in sharp, painful focus, a short handsome boy with a bold face. Just the type to take someone else’s girl. Oh for Christ’s sake, this is awful.
They stopped and struck camp and he did everything that was required of him but the images didn’t go away. They got more insistent. He ate what was set in front of him as taunting pictures filled his mind – Barbara and that foul creature whispering together, dancing together, kissing … No, no, no! Even in sleep the torment didn’t stop and at five he woke with a start from a nightmare of such exquisite misery that he was glad to be awake, even with a day’s fighting ahead of him.
That day the advance was quicker than they expected, although most of the old hands moved guardedly. There was still no sign of any opposition but that was no reason to take chances.
They passed through two villages, checked over a series of empty farmhouses, and finally, just as the light was fading, they came to another rather larger village, tucked between two slight hills, with a sizeable farm about half a mile to the east, built of red brick like all the other buildings in the area and looking solid and prosperous. The villagers were waiting in the square with a white flag, more than ready to surrender, and Steve and his team of six were detailed to check the farm.
There were three main buildings, the farmhouse, which was intact and would be relatively easy to flush out, and two barns set at right angles to one another, both badly damaged and both capable of harbouring a sniper.
Steve made a quick judgement. ‘We’ll check the barns,’ he said, looking at Dusty. ‘You lot clear the farm. Keep your eyes skinned for any more dug-outs.’ Lots of the locals had been hiding in dug-outs and they would make a ready hiding place for troops.
The four men gave him the thumbs-up and headed off for the farmhouse. He and Dusty watched until they were out of sight. No ambush. No snipers. No gunfire of any kind.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘Let’s deal with these barns. Slow an’ steady.’
They stalked towards the nearer of the two buildings. It was so quiet they could hear one another breathing. The barn door was tightly closed.
‘Kick it in?’ Dusty whispered.
‘Yep,’ Steve whispered back and he suddenly remembered how he’d kicked open the door to his honeymoon bungalow and how valiant he’d felt and how impressed Barbara had been. He could see her now, looking up at him. Oh she couldn’t have betrayed him. Not when they loved one another so much.
Then boot met wood, there was a crash and the door burst open. And to his horror, he found himself looking down the long barrel of a Spandau. It was pointing straight at him and the soldier stooped over it was wearing the familiar field grey of the German army. Jesus! Now, and disastrously too late, he remembered his training. He should have told Dusty to cover him, hidden his approach, entered by the prescribed stages. How could he have forgotten anything as elementary as that? But he had and now they were both facing capture or worse and it was all his fault. Jesus!
There was a long pause while the three men stared at one another. Nobody fired and nobody moved. Then, with a suddenness that made them all jump, there was a burst of fire down by the farmhouse and the German began to shout.
Steve and Dusty sent rapid eye messages to one another, reaching the same decision in the same split second. They were caught. It was over. If they ran they’d be shot in the back like the Scotsman. How vividly Steve remembered the Scotsman! They threw their rifles onto the barn floor and raised their hands in surrender. It was ignominious but there was nothing else they could do. The firing at the farmhouse was still going on but the German had picked up his machine gun and was waving it at them, pointing into the next barn and shouting at them angrily, ‘Mach Schnell! Mach Schnell!’ Steve realised he was still analysing the sound of the exchange as he went where he was ordered. Three rifles – or was it four? – and then the long rattle of a German machine gun. Get the hell out of it, he urged his mates. But they were beyond his help now. They would have to fend for themselves. He was deserting them. Oh God! The shame of it! He was deserting his men.
There was a battered truck standing in the second barn and they were pointed into the back of it. Then the German climbed into the driving seat, slinging his Spandau down beside him, and they were off, with a squeal of tyres and a cascade of dust.
Now they’ll hear us, Steve thought. But the exchange of fire was still going on and they were out of the yard and tearing along a sunken road, where they couldn’t see the farmhouse or the village or anything at all expect a tunnel of branches. And t
he chance for a counter-attack and rescue was gone.
They drove for over an hour as the darkness fell, heading east and using totally deserted roads. Steve and Dusty sat on the floor of the truck among packets of food and piles of old uniforms and dozens of petrol cans. It was extremely uncomfortable for the roads were in bad repair and they were thrown about at every turn. But the physical discomfort was nothing to the turmoil in Steve’s mind. He felt stunned by his stupidity, and deeply, horribly ashamed to have been so cowardly. He should have followed the procedures, and then none of this would have happened, and he shouldn’t have given in so quickly. How could he have made so many mistakes? The more he thought about it the more miserable he became. He shrank into himself, saying nothing, staring at the side of the truck, a failure, giving in at the first threat, a bad soldier, a worse husband, nothing but a total, God-awful, fucking failure.
Presently Dusty plucked up the courage to move. He took his cigarette packet from his tunic, very carefully, watching his captor all the time, and offered it to Steve saying, ‘Smoke?’ To his surprise the German turned towards him and put out a hand towards the packet too, saying, ‘Ja.’
So they smoked together and as the German wasn’t shouting or waving his gun at them, Dusty began to talk – very quietly.
‘Where d’you think we’re going, corp?’
It took an effort for Steve to answer him, as if he were pulling a great weight into his head. ‘East,’ he said at last.
‘I’m dyin’ for a jimmy riddle.’
‘So am I,’ Steve realised.
But neither of them thought it would be possible to stand up and relieve themselves out of the back of the truck so they sat on in discomfort and Steve fell back into his misery. More time passed and Dusty was just observing that they ‘must be there soon’ when the German suddenly pulled up and climbed out.
It was pitch dark and they seemed to be alone in the middle of a field. The German was piddling against one of the trees in a small copse about a hundred yards away. So they got out of the truck too and followed his example. Then they weren’t sure what they were supposed to do and stood by the truck awkwardly ill at ease.
Their captor was standing at the edge of the field, smoking and looking out into the darkness.
‘What’s he doing?’ Dusty whispered.
Again that enormous effort for Steve to pull his thoughts into his mind. ‘Waiting for someone?’ he ventured. ‘Maybe it’s a rendezvous.’
But nobody arrived and presently, the German flicked his dog-end into the copse and walked briskly back to the car. He took a pressure stove, a coffee pot and two billycans out of the truck and signalled to his prisoners that they were to prepare a meal. It was most peculiar. And what followed after the meal was even more peculiar. The German climbed into the back of the truck, motioning them in ahead of him. Then he produced an army blanket from under the pile of clothing, wrapped himself up in it, pulled his revolver from his belt and lay down to sleep with the gun in his hand.
‘Run?’ Dusty mouthed.
Steve shook his head. Weighed down by misery he couldn’t see the point of it. They were miles into German territory and unarmed. They’d only be picked up again in the morning. They might as well stay where they were and wait to be handed over. He pulled a greatcoat from the pile, huddled into it and settled to sleep too. The German could be lost – he’d been driving without any reference to a map – or he could have come here to meet up with his unit. Either way he’d hand them over tomorrow and then they’d be registered as prisoners of war and sent to a camp somewhere and the whole thing would be out of their hands. No soldier would drive about the countryside with two prisoners. Not for long anyway.
But the next day, they drove on further and further east, using the minor roads and avoiding the towns, and they weren’t handed over. And in the evening they stopped in another empty field, ate and drank as before and bedded down for yet another night.
‘It don’t make sense,’ Dusty whispered when the German seemed asleep. ‘What’s he playing at?’
But whatever it was he had very good hearing, for at that point he sat up, threatened them with the revolver and bellowed at them, ‘Halt die schnauze!’, obviously telling them to shut up. He was an ugly-looking man with a long horsey face and small eyes and his anger was making him look cruel, so they did as they were told, looking away from him in the sullen way of all captured soldiers.
So another night passed and the three men slept fitfully, the German irritably watchful, Dusty cold and puzzled, Steve more and more depressed.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
On the morning after her quarrel, Barbara got up at half past five. Her sleep had been broken by bad dreams and when Steve’s alarm-clock trilled her awake, she was so weary it was an effort to open her eyes, but she had no intention of being in the house when her mother-in-law woke. So she got up at once, had a lick and a promise in very cold water, made a cup of tea, ate a slice of bread and marge and was gone before the kitchen clock struck six.
It was a bright, clear, empty morning and she had the street to herself. Being out in the open restored her spirits, and especially at that moment, in that town. She walked past the dusty privet hedges, enjoying the mottled yellow of the brick walls, the gull-grey of the tiles, the stolid bay windows, still curtained and sleeping. She felt she belonged there and was glad to be alive, despite her stupid mother-in-law. This is such a brave town, she thought, such a good, solid, dependable sort of place. We been bombed an’ buzzbombed, we’ve had rockets dropped on us, an’ people we love have been killed, an’ we’ve put up with everything. We hain’t the sort to give in.
But at that moment she saw a familiar figure trudging along the road towards her. She’d forgotten that six o’clock was the time Bob came home when he was working nights. Oh dear! she thought. I really don’t want to talk to him, nice though he is. Not now. What shall I say? But she couldn’t avoid him, not without being deliberately rude, which would hurt his feelings and she didn’t want to do that. So they met at the bend of the road.
They were both embarrassed, he because he knew there’d been a row, she because she knew that he knew. But they made light of their meeting and their embarrassment.
‘You’re up early!’ he said, smiling at her.
She made an excuse. It sounded feeble even to her ears. ‘I promised to see Mr Threlfall,’ she said. ‘Before work.’
He kept so calm that he didn’t register any emotion at all. ‘Ah!’ he said and walked on. But once he was indoors, his annoyance couldn’t be contained.
Heather was in her dressing gown in the kitchen, setting the table for breakfast and looking anxious but for once her fraught expression roused no pity in him at all.
‘I’ve just met Barbara,’ he said.
She closed her face. ‘Oh yes,’ she said dismissively. ‘Bacon an’ fried bread be all right?’
‘What’s she doing out this time a’ the morning?’
Her answer was truthful and aggressive. ‘Keeping out a’ my way I expect.’
‘You went for her.’ It was more a statement than a question.
‘Somebody had to say something,’ she told him. ‘You can’t let things go forever. We’ve got our Steve to think about.’
‘And this is going to help him?’
‘She shouted at me, Bob. She was horrible.’
He didn’t doubt it but there were other things that were more important at the moment. ‘What she say about the fly in the ointment?’
‘As good as admitted it.’
He’d hoped she would have denied it. No, more than hoped, he’d expected her to. Was there truth in what that boy had said then? He sat down wearily in his chair before the fire and unlaced his boots.
‘Did you ask her? Straight out, I mean.’
‘’Course. She couldn’t deny it.’
So there’s real damage been done, he thought. Whatever possessed her, silly girl? She might have known there’d be trouble. �
��So now what?’
Heather turned the rasher of bacon in the frying pan and reached for the slice of bread. ‘Don’t ask me,’ she said. ‘You know more than I do. She went rushing off without a word to me. I wasn’t even up. I suppose she’ll move back with Sis, if she’ll have her. I can’t keep pace with her, coming an’ going all the time. Poor Steve.’
In fact Barbara had no intention of moving in with Sis. It wasn’t something to make a habit of and, besides, she had no reason to run away, not having done anything wrong. I’ll sleep there and eat there, she decided, and I’ll keep my head down and stay out of her way and wait. Sooner or later she’ll have to eat humble pie. On which comforting thought, she reached Sis’s flat.
Sis had just lit her first fag of the day when the bell rang. Spluttering and coughing, and with the cigarette stuck to her bottom lip, she trailed her dressing gown cord down the stairs to let her visitor in.
‘Don’t surprise me a bit,’ she said, when Barbara told her what had happened. ‘There’s no one like our Heather for gettin’ hold of the wrong end a’ the stick. You done the right thing getting out of it. You ’ad any breakfast?’
Avalanche of Daisies Page 34
