JT02 - To The Grave

by Steve Robinson

  “Likewise ma’am,” Danny said. He squatted forward, stretched a long, substantial looking arm across the gap and shook Mena’s hand.

  Edward gave a chirpy laugh. “Danny here almost got himself into trouble this afternoon,” he said. “That’s how we met.”

  “Oh?”

  “No fault of his own, mind,” Edward added. “I was having a drink with a couple of chums down at the Dog. It was pretty quiet in there except for a bunch of flyboys who’d had one or two sherbets too many. We couldn’t see them where we were sitting, but we could hear them all right. Having a dig at you over the pay difference weren’t they, Danny?”

  Danny grinned. “Hell, they’d have started up over just about anything, I reckon.” He shot a glance at Margaret. “Pardon my language, ma’am.”

  Margaret returned a forgiving half-smile and Danny continued.

  “Well, I didn’t much like the odds,” he said, “but there was no way I was getting outta there without a fight. I stood to meet them as they came over - ready to give it my best. Then Eddie here stepped out.”

  Edward laughed. “We couldn’t just sit there and let you take a pasting, could we? It was Dougie Peters who pointed your insignia out. We’d been fighting alongside you 82nd boys in Italy. You might be All American but we’re all airborne together so up we got.” Edward laughed again. “I can still see their faces when I said to Peters, ‘Now it’s a fair fight!’”

  “They didn’t even finish their beers,” Danny said, laughing along with him.

  He had a perfect mouth, Mena thought. She liked the way his smile lifted slightly in one corner and how the intensity in his eyes seemed to lift with it.

  “Good for you, Edward,” Pop said. “Those RAF sorts think they own the place. We’re surrounded by airfields, Danny. It’ll be nice to see some different uniforms about the place.”

  “The 504th are camped at Shady Lane,” Edward said to Mena.

  “Camp Stoughton, we call it,” Danny added.

  Mena continued to smile at Danny, nodding her head. She wished she wasn’t in such a state. Her hair felt wretched and her face was no doubt ruddy and glistening from the ride home.

  “They kept us in for two weeks quarantine when we arrived,” Danny said.

  “Came into Liverpool, I hear,” Pop said.

  “We sure did, and it was a welcome sight after Italy. We sailed up through the Med on a tub called the Capetown Castle. I think it used to be a cruise ship.” He paused and for a long moment he stared at the cap in his hands. “We lost too many friends back there,” he added. “I guess that’s why we’re here now.”

  “Regrouping?” Pop said.

  Danny nodded. I don’t know how long it’ll take to get back to operational status, but no one’s in any hurry. Green fields and friendly faces, and a comfy cot to sleep on. It sure ain’t Italy.”

  Mena found herself fishing for eye contact, but Danny was looking at his cap again, slowly wringing it back and forth in his hands like his mind was elsewhere. There was an element of vulnerability about him that Mena liked. It made her want to know him better, perhaps to understand why.

  Danny drew a breath through his teeth and pressed his hands onto his thighs. “Well I should be getting along.” He stood up. “Thank you kindly for your hospitality ma’am,” he said to Margaret. “It was real swell of you.”

  The rest of the room rose with him.

  “You must come back again,” Margaret said.

  “Mmm,” Pop agreed, still hanging onto his pipe. “And bring a buddy next time.”

  “Careful,” Edward said. “You’ll have the whole of the 504th knocking at your door before you know it and it will all be my fault!”

  Danny laughed. “Don’t worry, ma’am. They don’t let us all out at once.”

  “Well come back soon,” Margaret said, shaking his hand.

  “I’d sure like that,” Danny said, and as he made for the door Mena caught his eyes at last and she held them, thinking how much she would like that too.

  Chapter Seven

  The next day was not so bright: no rain yet, but there was a scurrying breeze and the sky over Leicestershire was filled with the kind of gathering grey clouds that told Mena rain was soon to follow. Gone was the sun-washed vibrancy of yesterday, muted now in shade. Yet today, Mena saw Oadby just as she had seen it then, as if everything reminded her of the day she first met Danny.

  Mary had arrived home early that morning, as Edward had said she would. It was early afternoon now. The Saturday chores were done and the errands run. Pop had been called out on a house visit and Margaret Lasseter had gone to queue with her ration book - and the twins. Sightings of Mary and Edward had been scarce since breakfast and since Edward was with them it meant that they had sausages, which although not on the ration were hard to get and made a pleasant change to the monotony of wheat flakes or porridge.

  Mena was by the French doors in the conservatory when Mary and Edward reappeared. She was sitting on the floor between Xavier and Manfred, gazing towards Evington, deep in thought as she toyed affectionately with their floppy ears.

  “Are you sure you won’t come to the pictures?” Mary said. “We’d love you to join us, wouldn’t we, Edward?”

  “Yes, of course,” Edward said. “Just like old times.”

  “Don’t pretend you haven’t been looking forward to it,” Mary added.

  They were taking the bus into Leicester and it had been arranged that the next time Mary was home they would see a movie. Rita Hayworth was starring in Cover Girl and Mary was right, she had been looking forward to it. Until yesterday. Until Danny Danielson.

  “I can’t, really,” Mena said.

  Mary came closer and knelt beside her. “Why-ever not?”

  “I told Mother I’d look after this soppy pair until she gets back.”

  Mary ran a hand down Xavier’s spine. “That doesn’t sound like you, Mena Lasseter. What are you up to?”

  Mena felt a smile rise inside her. “Nothing, really.” She looked away and tried to hide her face by nuzzling into the back of Manfred’s huge head, brushing her nose back and forth on his coat until he rolled over and licked her chin.

  Mary stood up. “Well, be good.”

  “See you later,” Edward added as they left. “We’ll save you some popcorn if they have any.”

  Fifteen minutes after Mary and Edward had gone, Mena was cycling away from Oadby on the Stoughton Road wearing her best day-dress beneath a beige raincoat, with a scarf in her hair and contraband cherry-red lipstick on her lips. There were fields to either side of her and she saw few people, although she turned away whenever she did in case someone recognised her. As she neared the end of the road, a US-military jeep passed her in the opposite direction and a covered truck followed it with plenty of whistling from the back. At the junction she turned left onto Gartree Road then right into Shady Lane by the golf course.

  Shady Lane looked its best in full sun, she thought, when the contrast between the leafy canopy above her and the swatches of sunlight on the lane below was at its most intense. The bluebells that lined the lane’s deep verges looked happier then; although today, for Mena at least, they were still smiling even though the lane, which stretched away beyond sight, was so grey it was almost dark.

  She had cycled about halfway down when she heard what sounded like a party going on somewhere ahead. A little further and she could see a number of bicycles scattered at random, some lying on their sides, others against the trees. The party-like chatter was coming from the cycle’s owners, who were leaning against a post-and-rail fence that ran alongside the lane.

  Mena slowed and stepped from her bicycle, walking with it until she drew level with the rest. She stopped. She couldn’t quite believe her eyes but what had she expected? That she was the only girl within cycling distance of Camp Stoughton with cause to go there? A line of girls, wearing what Mena imagined were their brightest outfits, stood by the fence, chatting away and giggling with a line of men
that was three deep in places on the other side. Their American accents told her she’d found the right place and as she dropped her bicycle and went to the fence herself, she saw that some of them wore the same smart uniform she’d seen on Danny yesterday, while others looked casual in loose-fitting jackets and trousers that were covered with baggy pockets.

  Her heart began to race. She felt uncomfortable at first, but as she leant on the rail she was put at ease by a sudden eruption of laughter as one of the GIs - a small, dark-haired man - climbed onto the shoulders of the biggest man there and began to juggle what looked like three galvanised metal cups. She became so caught up in the scene, smiling and laughing with everyone else as the larger man wobbled and side-stepped beneath the juggler, that she was startled when another uniform rose up against the fence in front of her.

  “Hey, doll-face! You wanna help win the war?”

  Mena stepped back and the smiling soldier removed his forage cap. He clutched it to his chest and began to flash his eyebrows at her. “Tell me I never made it through Italy,” he said, pronouncing the country as, Idaly. “Tell my mother I’m in heaven and I ain’t ever comin’ home!”

  Another man quickly joined him, shoving him aside. He was smiling, too. Everyone was smiling. “Don’t mind him, ma’am,” he said. “Spiller’s the regimental idiot! It’s a mystery to us all how come he did make it through Italy.” The GI reached a hand over the fence. “Names Montalvo,” he added. “That’s Vic to you. What’s yours?”

  Mena was hesitant. A girl standing beside her in a royal-blue dress turned and nudged her. She was no ‘girl’ at all, Mena thought. She had to be in her forties.

  “Come on, honey. I don’t bite,” Montalvo said. “Not dames, anyways.”

  Mena shook Montalvo’s hand and quickly withdrew again. “Mena,” she offered.

  Montalvo whistled, slow and long. “I like that. Say, that’s almost as cute as you.”

  He sounded the same as Danny and the rest of the GIs, Mena thought, but there was something different about him: his skin was tanned, like the rest, but it had a waxy appearance like an olive, which by contrast made his teeth look whiter. His nose was small and his eyes were wide-set, and his hair showed oily black beneath his cap, which rested at an impossible slant on his head.

  “So what brings you to Camp Stoughton?” he said.

  “I’m looking for someone.”

  “Hey, ain’t we all, sweetheart!” It was Spiller again.

  Montalvo, the bigger of the two, reached an arm around Spiller’s neck and pulled him into his chest. “He sure is a joker!” he said as he began to rap his knuckles on the man’s head. When Spiller protested, Montalvo shoved him away again, watching after him as he moved down the line to annoy someone else.

  “What’s the lucky fella’s name?” Montalvo said. “Maybe I can find him.”

  “Danny,” Mena said. “Danny Danielson.”

  Montalvo looked like he was thinking about it. “Rings a bell,” he said. “I couldn’t say for sure.”

  “He’s tall,” Mena said. “About your height. He’s got blonde hair and -” She was about to tell him about Danny’s blue eyes, but she thought better of it.

  “Blonde?” Montalvo said.

  “Almost white.”

  Montalvo nodded. He smiled. “Yeah, sure. I think I know who you mean. There’s a Blondie in H-company.”

  Mena reached into her raincoat pocket and produced a note in a sealed envelope. She read Danny’s name on the front and smiled, chewing her lower lip, wondering if Danny would think it too forward of her until she began to feel light-headed. The envelope quivered as she handed it over. “Give him this will you?”

  Montalvo took the note and turned it in his hands. “What if it ain’t the right guy?”

  Mena was thinking about it when she became aware that the woman next to her was leaning over the fence, kissing one of the GIs. It looked like the kind of kiss Mena had seen at the pictures, only these two really meant it. She thought it was enough to put Mary and Edward to shame. When the woman withdrew, her lipstick was smeared on both their faces and the GI was beaming as he handed something across the fence. It was a tan-coloured ball that unravelled as the woman took it and Mena saw that it was a pair of stockings. The woman kissed him again and the GI backed away.

  “Hey, Victor!” several voices called out at once in slow, patronising tones. “Lover boy!”

  Montalvo looked around. Spiller was there with several other men, presumably from his unit. They waved and pulled cutesy faces, and Mena saw that all the GIs were moving away from the fence now and she noticed that the smiles on the girls’ faces were fading.

  “Gotta go,” Montalvo said. “Tell you what. Meet me back here, same time tomorrow.” He backed away, still smiling. “I’ll let you know if I found your man.”

  My Man, Mena thought. My Blondie. She liked the sound of that.

  The next evening, Mena was out fire-watching with Joan Cartwright. It wasn’t something they did in any official capacity; they received no pay and their services were additional to Oadby’s regular fire-watch rota. Several of the local girls had volunteered their services a few years ago, when the air raids had been at their peak. Margaret Lasseter had been against any kind of duty that kept her daughter out after dark. But Mena had worked on Pop, who in turn had worked on her mother until it was agreed that until she was old enough to join the Land Army, she could fire-watch two nights a week as long as she had a friend with her and was home by midnight.

  There was a building on the Leicester Road, next to the painters-and-decorators, which had a flat roof. The owner always left a ladder out so they could climb up and sit against one of the chimneystacks, looking out over the shops and houses for evidence of incendiary bombs. The regular fire-watchers who patrolled the streets in shifts throughout the night would always check on them as they passed, and whenever there was an air-raid they had to come straight down and get to one of the shelters, which wasn’t so often lately.

  It was a cool night. The clouds had moved out of Oadby by mid-afternoon and the stars and half-moon above the blacked-out streets were typically bright in the sky. Both girls wore coats and scarves with their inseparable gas masks in a box that hung around their shoulders. Their torches had cardboard over the lens with a hole cut in it to reduce the beam whenever they needed to use them and they each had a flask of hot soup to keep them going. For the most part they just sat in the moonlight, listening to the world below them: the muted revelry from a nearby pub and the clack of heels on the streets. That’s when they could hear anything at all over the sound of their own gossip.

  “Mary knows,” Mena said, once she’d told Joan all about her visit to Shady Lane.

  “You’re kidding me,” Joan said. “How?”

  “I went back there today. I wanted to make sure Danny got my note. One of Mary’s friends must have recognised me and told.”

  “Thank God she didn’t tell your mother!”

  “I know.”

  Joan had been Mena’s best friend since either could remember. She had shimmering chestnut hair that fell past her shoulders in long waves, big brown eyes that were wide-set, and she always wore make-up these days, even at home. She produced a crumpled packet of American Chesterfield cigarettes, lit one up and drew on it, leaving her lipstick on the paper as she handed it to Mena between long scissor-like fingers.

  “And?” she said, her eyes growing with expectation as she spoke. “Did he get the note?”

  Mena coughed and nodded. “He wants to meet me,” she said. “Next time he can get out of camp.” She coughed again and handed back the cigarette.

  “And when’s that?” Joan said, smiling and fidgeting.

  “Next Friday night. At St Peter’s!”

  Both girls began to giggle.

  “Great choice,” Joan said. “Your mother won’t go anywhere near that place.”

  “I know,” Mena said. “She’d sooner cross the street than risk bumping into an An
glican.”

  Joan took a thoughtful pull on the cigarette. “What about your sister? How much does she know? D’you reckon she’ll tell?”

  “I told her everything,” Mena said. “She wasn’t happy about it, but I’m sure she won’t say a word. She knows I’ll be in for it if she does.” She shrugged like she didn’t care. “Mary worries too much,” she added. “I’m nearly seventeen, aren’t I? Feels more like I’m still ten.” She took the cigarette from Joan and puffed heavily on it as if to prove the point. Then she rolled her head back with Joan’s and blew smoke at the moon.

  “You’ll have to pretend you’re fire-watching,” Joan said a moment later. “It’s the only way you’ll be allowed out.”

  “It’s not my night for it,” Mena said. “Can’t you call for me with some story? Like we’re expecting a raid and they need all the volunteers they can get.”

  Joan gave a derisive laugh. “You wouldn’t be allowed out at all if your mother thought there would actually be an air-raid.” She sighed. “I can’t anyway. I’m supposed to be looking after my pain-in-the-backside brother. Mummy and Daddy are going to a dance - some posh fundraiser in town I’d rather be going to myself.”

  Mena unscrewed the cap on her soup flask. “Never mind, I’ll come up with something,” she said. “Mary will be away again by then. I’ll have to lie to Mother, of course.”

  Joan snorted, puffing smoke through her nose. “That’s nothing fresh!”

  Chapter Eight

  By the time Mena’s Friday night date with Danny Danielson came around, she had her mother believing that she’d swapped a fire-watch shift with one of her friends because her ‘friend’ had no one else to sit with her. She’d even stayed home when she was supposed to meet Joan on their usual night to make the story seem genuine, and it had worked a treat. She had until midnight.

  It had been raining most of the day, but it was thankfully dry now. It was after nine p.m. and almost dark when Mena set out on her bicycle for the church. Double summertime hours, which had been in place between April and September since the war began, meant that it stayed light an hour longer than usual. Dusk was the time to go fire-watching and although she would have liked to go sooner, it had apparently suited Danny and she didn’t want to do anything to arouse her mother’s suspicion. To further maintain the lie, she had her gas mask, torch and flask with her in her bicycle basket, and as the evenings were still chilly, she wore her coat and scarf, which was just as well given what she was wearing beneath it.