Bullivant looked as if it had not occurred to him. ‘I suppose that’s right, sir. There’ll be a lot to do, though. Tidying up and suchlike.’
‘Looking after the geraniums,’ mentioned Bryant who had been standing silently with them. ‘Mind you keep them watered.’
A blush edged across Bullivant’s face. ‘I don’t expect I’ll be here all that long, sir,’ he said gruffly. ‘They’ll find a posting for me soon enough, I expect.’
‘Ross and Cromarty,’ repeated Westerman slowly as if to himself. ‘I’ve looked it up, Bryant. Have you seen where it is?’
Bullivant threw up his best salute, which always resulted in his webbing belt riding up his stomach. ‘Shall I carry on, sir?’
‘Yes, do, sergeant,’ answered Westerman. ‘And make sure that seagull gets cleared up.’
‘I’ve given orders, sir,’ swallowed Bullivant. He saluted again and wheeled like a carousel before stamping off.
‘They’ll have a job to find somewhere for him, sir,’ said Bryant.
‘Gross, isn’t he,’ agreed Westerman. ‘Just as long as he doesn’t follow me to Ross and Cromarty.’ He looked at Bryant as if he thought the lieutenant might know the whole strategy. ‘Whatever are we doing with a unit up there?’ he asked. ‘Are we afraid of aggression from the Icelandics?’
Thankfully Bryant saw a jeep back in at the gate. Scarlett climbed out and strolled to them. ‘Never march, these Americans, do they?’ commented Westerman under his breath. ‘They slump. Their arms would fall off if they swung them.’
Bryant introduced the American officer. ‘Must be off,’ said Westerman immediately. ‘A million things to do before I go.’
‘Like pack his shaving kit,’ mentioned Bryant with a wry grin as his CO marched away. ‘And take his poker-work mottoes off the wall.’
‘They’ve taken your gun,’ noticed Scarlett. ‘Was it the Germans?’
‘Quick raid across the Channel,’ laughed Bryant. ‘Looks strange, gone, doesn’t it. Everyone had grown quite attached to it. There wasn’t a dry eye in the place.’ They watched Catermole march, quite smartly for him, across the open area, carrying a brush and a dustpan. He circled the dead feathers uncertainly before sweeping up the seagull. ‘How was London?’ asked Bryant mischievously. They began to walk towards the jeep.
‘I wanted to tell you about it,’ said Scarlett.
‘They got you back soon enough.’
‘For the general’s blow-up,’ nodded Scarlett.
‘What’s known in our army as a good bollocking,’ said Bryant.
They climbed into the jeep but Scarlett did not start the engine. ‘Listen,’ he said. ‘I got worried. I still am.’
‘Not the clap,’ said Bryant. ‘Not Jean Manifold.’ He saw the American was not joking.
‘Not Jean,’ the American shrugged. ‘That was no dice. When I got there she was being nice to a goddamn US Ranger, and you know the size of those guys. She just nodded to me, that’s all. I’m not too sure she recognized me again.’
‘That’s how she has to be, I suppose,’ said Bryant. ‘But what’s the worry?’
Scarlett looked around. A few people were still staring through the wire at the novelty of the absent gun. He started the engine of the jeep and drove along the coastal road towards the checkpoint. He drove slowly. It was a mild day, the beach busy with noisy birds. In the bay idled half a dozen small craft and farther out the pair of old destroyers.
‘About them,’ said Scarlett, nodding at them.
‘Smokey and Stover? What about them?’
‘You remember that night I got drunk, in the club in London, and I opened my big mouth. What exactly did I say?’
‘A lot of things. The sort of rubbish anybody talks when they’re pissed.’
‘But about those ships? Level with me, I did go on about them, didn’t I? That’s why you warned me this time.’
Bryant nodded: ‘You did. But it was nothing. You complained about them being old and slow. The sort of thing anybody might say.’
Scarlett tightened his lips. ‘But is it? Jesus, why couldn’t I keep my great mouth shut. That’s information that could be picked up by anybody – by the Germans.’
‘What’s the worry now? You did it and that’s all there is to it. I won’t tell. We all talk too much sometimes.’
‘It’s not as simple as that. You know that guy who was at the desk in that place, the thin one with the pinky eyes – and the older guy, the waiter. They were right there when I said it, right? Even I remember them, standing there listening.’
‘Yes, I think so. What about them?’
‘They vanished, that’s what about them. They were a couple of queers, living together, and the old guy had been in prison. All sorts of stuff has come out. The police and secret service guys have been looking for them.’ Woefully he looked at Bryant. ‘They could have been spies.’
It was a night of deepest dark along the coastal road, with a clumsy wind buffeting across the low land. The wind came from the very hole of the night, somewhere far over the sea. Off-shore Schorner knew there were thirty-three ships ranging from a US heavy cruiser to a wallowing water-carrier, lying there now, only pricked with light, waiting for tomorrow’s resumption of the everlasting rehearsal.
The colonel was going to Dorothy’s house. Lying on the seat at his side in the jeep were two bottles of wine, tinned fruit and ice cream. As he reached the beach checkpoint and the military policeman approached, his torch bouncing, the Californian burgundy rolled across the seat. The snowdrop spotted it and looked up and saw it was Schorner.
‘Okay, sir,’ he said saluting casually. He grinned towards the wine. ‘Have a good night, sir.’ The man stood back and waved him on as the barrier went up. Schorner cursed quietly as he drove. Cocksure young bastard. But he found himself grinning. For once he felt youthful again.
The wind had Wilcoombe to itself although there was the customary Saturday night singing drifting from the blocked windows of the Bull and Mouth. His men, despite their initial disgust at the British beer, now treated the pub as their regular haunt. Of native institutions only the Totnes fish and chip shop was as popular. At the Bull and Mouth they had taken to cider. They had told the landlord that the beer ought to be left in the donkey.
Beyond Dorothy’s small, square house at the summit of the hill was an enclosed yard facing an old and dark barn. He had previously noted its strategic possibilities and now he turned the jeep over the gapped cobbles and left it in the shadow of the brooding building. Putting the wine and food in a US Army canvas bag he sidled to the front of the street, to the corner house, and knocked carefully on the door.
To his dismay it was opened by an elderly, pear-faced woman. For a moment he thought he had mistaken the house, but she smiled a long smile like a slack rope, and beckoned him in. ‘Dorothy’s through there,’ she said. ‘I’m her auntie. I thought I’d come round and take a look at you.’
‘Oh fine,’ said Schorner, still uncertain. ‘And how do I look?’
The old lady laughed. Her mouth dipped; her teeth were spaced like posts in a valley. ‘All right. All you boys look all right. Better than our scruffy lot, all beer and swearing like they are. And your boys are lovely dancers. I’ve watched them at Totnes. Doing that buggering.’
‘Jitterbugging, dear,’ corrected Dorothy. She arrived, smiling at Schorner’s confusion. She and Schorner shook hands formally.
‘Give him a kiss, if you like,’ said auntie. ‘I’ll shut my eyes. And I won’t take a squint, promise.’
Dorothy regarded her sternly. ‘Now, you promised, didn’t you?’
‘I did too,’ admitted the old lady. ‘No messing of things up.’ Her elongated face descended even further but then she looked up and beamed at Schorner. ‘That’s what I promised.’
They went into the small room with a table already set. There were three places on the white tablecloth. It had a neat mend at one corner. ‘I didn’t think you’d mind auntie being here
for a while,’ said Dorothy near his ear. ‘She’s a dear and she did so want to meet you, Carl.’ She looked up at the old lady. ‘She had a boyfriend from America, a soldier, in the First World War, didn’t you auntie?’
‘Oh, he was a devil,’ smiled the aunt. Dorothy had poured three glasses of sherry and the aunt had already drained her glass before she finished the brief sentence. She held it out for more.
‘Now, you, steady on,’ suggested Dorothy good-humouredly. She turned to Schorner who was regarding the old lady quizzically. ‘She doesn’t agree with the war,’ she explained. ‘So she’s having no part of it, only when it’s forced on her. They’ve arrested her twice for contravening the blackout regulations – at the beginning of the war her windows were blazing like a lighthouse when everything else was pitch black. People accused her of signalling to the Germans. Since then I’ve taken all her lightbulbs out except two and I have to go into her house and pull the blinds across. She doesn’t agree with the shortage of sherry, either. As you can see.’ She wagged her finger at the pleased-looking woman and half filled her sherry glass. ‘That’s all there is, auntie,’ she warned.
‘The American soldier,’ said Schorner. ‘Did you ever see him again?’
‘No!’ she said with a puff of her cheeks. ‘Mind you, never expected to.’ She wandered off into memory for a moment, but then returned briskly. ‘I was just a young maid. Had his way with me and then off he went. Never heard another dickie-bird of him. He was a cowboy he said, I think. Or was it an Indian? One of them. He wore a funny hat, I know.’
Schorner was laughing. Dorothy had gone into the kitchen and she called from there: ‘Whatever tale is she telling you?’
‘’Tis the truth,’ objected the aunt. She displayed her teeth like flags. ‘Same as I always told you. He wore a funny hat.’
‘Feathers?’ suggested Schorner playfully. ‘You can tell Indians, they wear feathers.’
‘No, it was pointed, like the Boy Scouts wear. He said they wear their hats in bed in America. Is that true? It seemed a very funny idea to me.’ To Schorner’s relief she did not want an answer. ‘But he was nice, you know. Real romantic. Like in the fillums, although we didn’t have pictures in those days, of course. Not heard of in these parts. But I often wondered if I’d see him on the fillums. When they opened the picture palace in Totnes, before the war, I used to go and see if I could spot him, even if it was just in the crowd. I went to all the cowboy films. Tom Mix, and the one with the white horse that sings.’
‘Roy Rogers,’ suggested Schorner.
She appeared astonished. ‘You know!’ she exclaimed. Then: ‘But I s’pose you would do, coming from there. I ’spect you see them every day on their horses.’ She went into another reverie. Then she said: ‘I’ve wondered if his son might be one of your boys over here now. I mean, ’tis possible. I’ve thought of that when I’ve seen them and I’ve thought, “I hope Charlie’s son don’t go and get ’isself killed.” His name was definitely Charlie, but I can’t rightly remember his other. I fancy it was one of those difficult names.’
As Schorner said: ‘We have plenty of difficult names in the United States,’ Dorothy came in with a steaming soup tureen.
‘It’s only vegetable,’ she said. ‘But I made it fresh from the garden.’ She glanced at him and grinned. ‘And no sprouts,’ she said. ‘I’ve heard how you all hate sprouts.’
Schorner nodded: ‘Little cabbages,’ he said.
They sat at the table and Dorothy asked him to pour the wine. The old aunt sucked her glass dry in a moment, the wine sizzling through her teeth. ‘Hmmm,’ she said. ‘That’s nice. I knew he’d bring something, Dotty. I said, didn’t I? Did he bring some ice cream?’
‘Auntie,’ said Dorothy patiently. ‘Yes, Colonel Schorner did bring some ice cream.’
‘Oh good,’ said the old lady happily. ‘I never agreed with them doing away with ice cream. Just because of the war. And rationing eggs. The hens still lay eggs even if there is a war. The hens don’t know. I’ve heard that the Germans eat butter instead of ice cream. We can’t even get the butter and we’re the ones who’s reckoned to be winning.’ She looked at Schorner for confirmation. ‘’Tis right, we are?’
‘I think we’re about halfway there,’ said Schorner cautiously. Dorothy said: ‘Auntie, could you keep quiet for a few moments, do you think?’
‘If you like, dear,’ nodded the old lady affably. She finished her soup spectacularly, spooning up the final dampness from the plate and pursuing a fugitive carrot around the rim. She swallowed it with a gulp of satisfaction. ‘That Charlie,’ she said. ‘Oh, he was romantic. Wore his hat in bed.’
When they had finished the meal, monopolized, despite Dorothy’s efforts, by the old lady’s reminiscences and philosophy, she suddenly announced that she was tired and wanted to go home.
‘All that chatting,’ said Dorothy kindly. ‘People wearing their hats in bed!’
‘That was Charlie, the American. God’s honour,’ said the aunt quietly. Dorothy helped her on with her coat. Schorner offered to take her home but Dorothy said: ‘She’s only three doors away. I’ll take her. Just make yourself at home.’
After elaborate good-byes and a pledge extracted from Schorner that he would try to discover Charlie, or at least the son of Charlie, the two women went out into the windy street. Dorothy had taken a coat down from a peg in the hall and, in the darkness, while the old lady was at the front door, the American helped the English girl to put it around her shoulders. His hand touched the top of her arm and he left it there for a moment. Her hand came up and lay gently across it. Then she said: ‘I won’t be a moment.’
He touched the door against the jamb, so that it did not close. Then, with an odd, hopeless feeling, almost a sensation of surrender, he went back into the close room. There was a small, lively fire in the grate. The lamps would have barely provided light to read. The armchair was worn down to comfort. He sat in it gratefully. Not for the first time he wondered at the circumstances which had brought him, a man nearing middle life, far from his house, his family and his land, to this strange, puzzling, comfortable place; in the house of this woman twenty years younger who, within a few minutes, would be returning to him.
She was quickly back, giving a loud shiver as she entered the door. ‘The wind’s very cold,’ she said from the darkness. She came into the room and smiled with genuine pleasure at the sight of him in the armchair. ‘You look very settled there,’ she said. ‘It fits you.’
‘It’s not your special chair is it?’ he asked, rising.
‘It’s for you,’ she said. She was clearing the dishes from the table. He moved to help, but she waved him back. ‘Help with the washing-up, if you like,’ she told him. ‘But we’ll have some coffee first. American coffee. Beatrice Evans, bless her, gave me half her tin.’
She balanced the dishes and took them past him. The edge of her dress rolled across his arm as she went through the door. ‘I hope you didn’t mind auntie,’ she called from the kitchen.
‘She was a surprise – that’s for sure,’ he acknowledged, laughing.
‘Her and Charlie,’ she giggled. She appeared at the door. ‘I wonder what really happened.’
‘A story,’ he shrugged. ‘Another story. They happen all the time.’
‘It’s a natural occurrence, I suppose,’ she said. ‘Wars and soldiers, people meeting.’ She halted abruptly and, as if fearing she had said too much, she went back into the kitchen. The dishes sounded. He sat smiling in the orange light of the fire. He could feel his limbs resting.
‘How is it you got to be a colonel?’ she called from the kitchen. ‘I mean, if everybody joins the army more or less at once, which is what happened isn’t it, how do they choose who is going to be what? Do they pick you if you’re bigger than the others or do they think you’ve got the eye of a leader?’
‘There have been times when I’ve thought that way,’ he answered.
She appeared at the door again. ‘I’ve
put the kettle on,’ she said. She sat on the arm of the chair and, naturally and quietly, they held hands.
He looked into the fire. ‘Do you still want to know, about how they select officers?’ he said.
‘Yes, I’m very interested,’ she replied. ‘I’ll sit here until the kettle boils. If it goes over the top it puts the gas out. How did you?’
‘In my case I joined the National Guard, that’s like your Territorial Army. In 1939. Not many people in America wanted any part of any war then, against Hitler or anybody else. Some guys went over the border and joined the Canadian Air Force because they weren’t blind as to what was going to happen anyway. But the rest, well they were happy to let the world bleed, just as long as the blood didn’t run on America. I didn’t see it like that but I had a farm and everything and I couldn’t take off for Canada and, in any case, I was too old to fly operationally. So I enlisted in the National Guard in West Virginia.’
‘And they made you an officer.’
He laughed. ‘Sure. I had my own gun.’
‘Get off,’ she giggled. She let go of his hand and went into the kitchen. He stood up and walked in after her. She made the coffee and he poured the milk into the cups. ‘Somebody told me you are forty-seven,’ she said conversationally. ‘That’s young for a colonel, isn’t it?’
‘Not at all. It’s just like being a schoolteacher, I guess. The classes tend to be bigger, that’s all.’
She took his coffee from him and they went into the other room. The wind hooted like a hooligan past the window. She sat him down in the armchair again and sat herself on the arm.
‘This,’ said Schorner patting the side of the chair, ‘is very nice.’
‘Yes, I suppose it is. I thought you would like it. You put the jeep around the corner, didn’t you? I saw it wasn’t in the street.’
‘Yes. I didn’t want to shock the neighbours.’
‘The rats will chew the tyres,’ she said. ‘They come out of the barn at night.’ Without a pause she said: ‘You’ve got grey eyes, haven’t you?’
The Magic Army Page 44
