Briskly she took cups and saucers from a cupboard. The kitchen was handsome, a whole room converted, with cupboards and gadgets and modern-looking taps over the sink. The kettle was electric also, a rounded shape. On the wall were two country pictures, prints in cheap wood frames. ‘The Yanks can’t help out with the coal,’ she continued. She spooned the coffee from an American jar. ‘That’s the only thing they can’t do,’ she said. ‘Anything else, booze, cigarettes, butter, steak. Rationing doesn’t worry me. And, of course, nylons.’ She eased up her long dress to the knee. ‘But no coal. I suppose it would be too much to expect presents of coal. Maybe one day I could try it. Some guy who’s really sweet on me.’ She laughed aridly and let the hem drop. ‘I sound like an American sometimes, don’t I,’ she said. ‘I can’t help it. It rubs off.’
The kettle boiled with a whistle. ‘Every modern convenience,’ he smiled.
She made the coffee in a pot and put it on a polished wooden tray with the cups, sugar and milk. He offered to carry it but she took it past him into the sitting-room. Scarlett was slumped over, half on the floor, as if he had been shot. ‘I don’t think Oscar is going to have any coffee,’ said Jean. Together they eased him back on the sofa. He grunted and made a brief face without opening his eyes.
They sat on the high-winged chairs on either side of the small glowing fire. ‘How about a drink to go with the coffee,’ she suggested, abruptly bright. Without waiting for a reply she stood and went to a cocktail cabinet at the back of the room. It lit up when she lifted the lid and a bell-like tune played. ‘Should Auld Acquaintance’. ‘Anything, just about anything,’ she invited. ‘Brandy. I’ve got some genuine French brandy.’
‘That’s wonderful,’ nodded Bryant. He had made up his mind now; he stood up and walked over to her. They were touching at the shoulders, looking down into the garish light of the cocktail cabinet as though it held some secret. She glanced sideways at him. ‘It doesn’t do much for your complexion, Alan,’ she murmured. ‘It’s ghastly, isn’t it? Another present.’
He held out his hands and revolved her slowly towards him. Willingly she turned. The points of her breasts were snubbed against his tunic, her face only an inch lower than his. His forefinger touched her chin. ‘Pink isn’t my colour,’ he smiled seriously. ‘And you are very beautiful without it.’
‘All right,’ she said softly. It was as if they had come to an agreement. ‘Yes, it’s all right, darling.’ She moved against him and their mouths touched, her hands sliding up to the back of his collar. The sensation of her body ran through him. He kissed her again on the mouth and then on the neck, feeling her thick hair cascading over both their faces.
She said: ‘Perhaps I can make you forget waiting for the train, and her not being on it. I couldn’t let anyone down like that. When my husband comes back I’ll be there.’
Bryant kissed her once again, enjoying the engrossing but casual lips. ‘It’s in here,’ she murmured as they pulled apart. It was as if she were showing him the bathroom. In a gentle but businesslike way she disengaged herself from his hold and began to walk towards the bedroom. Then, returning as if she had almost forgotten his presence, she gave a facile smile and looped her arm around his waist. Like lovers taking a walk they went to the bedroom. There they stood looking at the bed, linked together still, like newly-weds in a furniture store.
‘One thing about the last few years,’ she said. ‘It’s taught people how to put their arms around a stranger’s waist.’ She moved forward and carefully pulled down the counterpane. The room was quietly lit by one lamp on a table near the wall. ‘It’s also taught people to sleep together,’ she continued almost tonelessly, her hands at the back of the neck of her dress. Bryant remained near the door, motionless, his eyes on her. He made to move forward, but she shook her head. ‘Don’t,’ she said. ‘I like to get undressed without help.’
He remained still. She smiled a little doggedly at him and said: ‘No need to stand to attention.’
Bryant felt himself flush. He went to the other side of the bed and undressed. As when they were sitting in the winged chairs at the fireside, it was curiously sedate.
‘Do you undress your wife?’ she asked.
He shrugged. ‘One upon a time.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, looking up. ‘I just do it to tease.’
She had pulled her dress off her shoulders. He was standing in his army shirt and his tie still knotted. With only a glance across the bed, she unfastened the American brassière and pulled it away. She rubbed her hands on her breasts and looked up to see him staring at them. They were full and dull, resting against the whiteness of her ribs. Bryant went on his knees and began to move across the bed towards her like a boy. She laughed, blithely for once, and tugged at his khaki tie. ‘Wait for it,’ she warned playfully.
She began to pull the dress away from her hips and stomach. Bryant crouched, watching the white skin of her stomach appear; she was wearing a suspender belt and white knickers. ‘With or without?’ she asked jokingly. ‘The garters, I mean.’ Looking up, she saw his boyish expression in the pale lamp and she reached across to him with kindness. ‘I’ll take everything off,’ she offered. ‘It’s more comfortable.’
Quickly, now, as if she had finally no further reason to act a part, she took off the stockings, the knickers and the suspender belt. Bryant rolled on to his side on the bed. He looked at the shadows of her naked body as she leaned over to pull the sheets and blankets back. Shadows under her arms, under her breasts, between her thighs. ‘Let’s get in,’ she suggested. ‘In case what’s-his-name walks through. Some fool broke the lock of the door.’
In those few words he could see the life she had allowed to happen. Some fool breaking the lock of her bedroom door. He eased away from the covers on his side of the bed and rolled into the composed sheets. Stamped in heavy letters on the corner of the top sheet was the inscription ‘US Army’. The distraction was momentary for at that moment she was in there with him, against him; rehearsed, rolling and rubbing; her mouth gasping easy endearments. Her breasts lay heavily against his face, warm as cheeks, and he turned his mouth and suckled at one of them. He eased himself gently above her and put his hands between her slim, warm thighs. Did they have US Army stamped on them?
They made love, and then rested, on their backs, looking at the indistinct ceiling. Jean turned and whispered, teasingly close to his face, ‘Was that any help?’
‘A great deal,’ he said.
‘I’m sorry about your wife,’ she mumbled.
‘To hell with my wife,’ muttered Bryant. He felt her breasts move as she laughed quietly.
‘That’s what I say,’ she answered. ‘All the bloody time. To hell with everybody.’
They looked quickly towards the door as it was clumsily but slowly pushed open. Scarlett staggered in. He stumbled unhurriedly towards the bed and lay down, above the covers, on the other side of Jean Manifold. ‘That goes for me too,’ he mumbled drunkenly. ‘Fuck them all, I say. Every goddamn one.’
Hands in pockets, Albie Primrose walked like a lost, bespectacled child among the moving, shadowed crowds of the West End of London. The pavements were full of men in uniform, many drunk, and women who bellowed at them from doorways and corners. He had been to the Rainbow Corner Club in Piccadilly, and had three sarsaparillas and two cream doughnuts. Everything was in Rainbow Corner; all-American, the band playing ‘Moonlight Serenade’, the intimate dancing. He had gone to the dance floor and asked a broad American WAAC to dance. She refused rudely but he did not care. He thanked her politely for nothing, finished his doughnut. He bought a packet of US Government popcorn and walked into the London street.
He remembered Ballimach’s jibe about his ambition to grow to be a real live boy. God, he really did feel like Pinocchio sometimes. As if to confirm the sensation there was the little wooden fellow, on his strings, with old Geppetto, his father (a carpenter like the father of Jesus), pictured on stills outside a cinema.
; He realized he had never seen the movie. It was cold in the street; all the movement and the voices, the bold shouting from one side to the other as drunken soldiers and dirty women taunted each other, all that only made it seem more chill. The words came from skulls in the dark. He felt suddenly homesick. For America, for the wholesome things of life.
Abashed, he made a quick entry into the darkened foyer of the cinema. There were some heavy-skirted curtains. He found the opening at the third attempt and blinked in the lights on the other side. A dusty attendant with a drooping shoulder loitered in the area before the paybox. He had a dilapidated uniform, epaulettes flying out like wings, and torn peaked cap like some campaigner from somewhere far-off and forgotten. ‘Half-crowns only,’ he grunted when he saw Albie.
‘Sure,’ said Albie, moving towards the paybox, although momentarily surprised at the popularity of the children’s cartoon film at nine in the evening. He paid his half-crown and the deteriorated attendant ripped the ticket in half, an action of surprising venom. ‘Bloody disgrace, that’s what I call it,’ he muttered. ‘Bloody filth.’
Albie, not yet familiar with the ways of the British and certainly not with those of the Londoner, nodded agreeably. The man jerked his head towards a double door at the end of the lobby. ‘That’s the way, Yank,’ he said ominously. ‘As if you didn’t know.’
The small American did not know. He wandered uncertainly into the large dark cave of the cinema. Pinocchio and Jiminy Cricket were singing on the screen. Albie smiled recognition. It was warm in the darkness, almost fetid. The audience appeared to be in some numbers, but restive, moving vaguely, whispering and laughing among themselves. In the absence of an usherette, he sat one from the end of a row that was occupied by a huddle of patrons at the far end. With a peaceful pleasure he turned his face to the screen and settled back with the US Government popcorn.
Interested as he was, he could not help feeling that the other patrons, or most of them, were restive. The sniggering laughter continued, out of sequence with the doings of Pinocchio on the screen, and there were outbreaks of squeals and hushed curses. Albie was puzzled. Then a white, thin woman appeared in the aisle almost at his elbow. She waited with some impatience, indicating that she wanted to get to one of the seats the other side of his. He could see how white she was even in the dimness. She stood like a ghost.
Albie politely stood to let her pass. She brushed against him, spilling the popcorn from the bag held tightly to his chest. He apologized.
‘It’s quite all right, dearie,’ she assured him in a nasal whine. Even by the altering light from the screen he could see she was scraggy and poor. She sat down wheezily and began to scratch her stomach. Hurriedly Albie returned to Pinocchio. To his amazement the woman casually leaned across and took some popcorn from his opened bag. Involuntarily he moved it away. Several corns fell into his lap with the sudden movement. Almost absently she picked these morsels up and put them in her slit mouth. She was so thin her cheeks bulged. He could almost see the popcorn through the skin. Her eyes were on the screen.
‘I ’aven’t got my fare ’ome,’ said the woman after swallowing the popcorn. She still had her ghostly face away from him.
‘Pardon, ma’am?’ asked Albie. He felt afraid.
She breathed impatiently, her bosom sighing against the bones of her chest. ‘Do you fancy something?’ she asked. Then, with a grotesque impersonation of culture, she amended: ‘What would be your preference?’
‘Me?’ replied Albie. ‘Ma’am, I just want to watch “Pinocchio”.’
‘Fuck Pinocchio,’ she said as if that might be the answer. Leaning confidingly towards him she whispered in her Cockney croak, ‘Look, I’m very cheap, mate … buddy. It’s ten bob if you want me on the floor. A quid if I get down between your knees.’ She nudged him to ensure his attention, smiled a hellish smile and made a pumping action with her fist. ‘And a hand job is seven-and-a-tanner.’
Albie stared at the deathly face. Jiminy Cricket was singing: ‘When you get in trouble and you don’t know right from wrong, give a little whistle.’ The prostitute, half watching the film muttered: ‘Whistle up my arse.’
She could see Albie was about to get up from the seat. She tugged him back desperately. ‘’Ang on,’ she pleaded. ‘Five bob.’ There was a pleading in the lined face and cracked voice. ‘I ain’t even got the bus fare ’ome,’ she repeated. ‘It costs me a fortune to get in this fucking fleapit.’
Somehow Albie trembled to his feet. His shaking hand went to his pocket and found a sixpence. Blindly he pushed it towards her. She took it, held it in her palm and screwed up her eyes. ‘You ain’t getting anyfing for a tanner,’ she protested loudly. ‘Wot you want for a tanner?’
‘Beat it,’ begged Albie. ‘It’s your bus fare.’
The woman sent out a dog-like call. ‘I ain’t getting on my knees for a measly tanner,’ she howled. Laughter and scorn erupted from all parts of the cinema. Shakily Albie got up and made for the exit. The whore followed him. ‘Come on, Yank, it’s more than a tanner!’ she shouted. Screams of mirth came from women in the rows of seats. Men shouted banal advice. Albie’s glasses tipped sideways across his face. The skinny woman grabbed his arm viciously. ‘Trying to diddle me!’ she cried, ‘Fucking cheating Yank.’
An arm shot out of a seat immediately beside the aisle and Albie found himself held by a big American. ‘Listen, pal, pay up,’ grunted his compatriot. ‘And quick. We don’t want any goddamn snowdrops in here.’ The vile hand squeezed him, making him start with pain. The woman was sobbing realistically and stamping her foot. On the screen old Geppetto had lost Pinocchio and was setting out to find him.
‘I didn’t do anything,’ protested Albie in a loud whisper. ‘Not a thing.’
‘’Ee couldn’t do anyfing!’ bawled a female voice from the dimness. Ribald squeals of laughter blew up. There was some activity by the curtains at the rear of the cinema. The threadbare attendant was shouting something incoherent down the gangway. ‘Pay up, I said,’ demanded the big American at the end of the arm. Almost in tears Albie plunged his free hand into his pocket and took out a pound. He thrust it towards the woman who grabbed it like a starving fish grabbing a morsel. She turned haughtily and strode towards the screen waving her prize and shouting. The arm let Albie free. He rushed, sobbing, towards the exit, through the foyer, watched by the phlegmatic attendant, and went into the street. ‘Never ’ad it before, I s’pose,’ mentioned the attendant to the girl behind the cash desk. She nodded without interest and licked the end of her nose.
In the street Albie found he had exchanged one nightmare for another. Two women were fighting on the pavement, fists and nails and handbags flailing. One caught the other’s jet hair and swung her round like a club. They were being urged on by fifty servicemen in the uniforms of half a dozen allied countries and by a gaggle of their fellow strumpets. As Albie stumbled away, trying to avoid the scene, the handbag, drawn back by one of the brawlers, caught him on the side of the face. He shouted a blasphemy and rushed away, running madly, head down along the street, with no one taking notice of him. Realizing suddenly that his rushing might make him the target for any military police patrol, he pulled up. Sweating he began to walk aimlessly, muttering to himself over his foolishness.
Jesus Christ, wasn’t anything good in the world any more? Did no one do proper, ordinary things? A woman was on her knees in front of a sailor in a doorway. Albie shied away. Who were these nightmare people? God, why wasn’t he home in clean America?
Colonel Schorner had been sitting for an hour in his room at the Officers’ Club, writing to his wife. He was not a man given to long letters and since his arrival on New Year’s Day in England, although he had written regularly, twice a week, he had rarely stretched beyond two pages. Now he had written twelve.
The telephone rang and he picked it up. It was General Georgeton. ‘Feel like hitting the town, colonel?’
‘Wow,’ smiled Schorner. ‘Don’t say you got tickets for
the Windmill.’
‘Sorry, Carl,’ said Georgeton, genuinely rueful. ‘Sometimes I wish I were a buck private. I figure they have more fun.’
‘Sometimes,’ said Schorner. ‘It can be lousy.’
‘Right. No, it’s just that there are these people, English family, who take pity on American officers and ask them over to their house for a meal. I met the guy before, he’s an English gentleman. Yeah, that’s about it. You know, the way we figured they all used to speak. Like in the movies.’
‘I do,’ agreed Schorner. ‘And they’ve invited me too?’
‘I called them up,’ said Georgeton. ‘And they said come over and bring a guest. So if you want to be a guest?’
‘Fine, I’m not doing anything,’ answered Schorner. ‘When, sir?’
‘In an hour. I’ll meet you in the lobby.’
‘Right, general. I’m just finishing a letter home.’
He heard Georgeton pause. ‘How many pages do you write, Carl?’
‘This time, twelve,’ Schorner told him with what he realized was an odd pride.
‘That’s good. That’s very good,’ said Georgeton. ‘By the time I’ve thrown out the things the censor wouldn’t pass anyway, I can’t think of more than a darned page to say. What is there to write about, for God’s sake? Apart from the army and we’re not permitted to do that.’
‘As a rule,’ admitted Schorner, ‘I have the same difficulty. I guess social gossip is not our line.’
‘Maybe we’ll get some tonight,’ said Georgeton. He hung up.
Schorner finished the letter and signed it formally, ‘Your loving husband’. He looked at what he had done, just looked at it, he did not read it through, and sighed. If it had not been for this lousy war he would be there now, spring ploughing, watching the high snow melt, going home when it was getting dark to his own house, his wife, his dogs, his comfort. Love and ambition had already mellowed to satisfaction when his life was disturbed. How would everything be now? How would it survive? Would it? He took his diary from his tunic pocket and on the bottom of the letter copied a poem he had written down. It was the one given to him by Dorothy Jenkins, the schoolteacher, and her children: an exchange for the verses from his Robert Frost he had recited to them.
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