A TIME OF WAR

by MARY HOCKING

  People came in; a very thin, flowerily dressed woman smiling graciously as though she owned the church, accompanied by a man with a mottled red face, holding himself very erect. They sat at the front of the church. Peter and his best man had come in by a side door; Peter looked quickly down the aisle and then turned to face the altar. Con and Beatie joined Robin, and Beatie whispered, `I think she’s here.’ The light shone on the altar; beyond, the stained glass window depicted Mary in blue, hands folded, passive, finished with strife.

  The organist began to play. People shuffled to their feet. `Sing,’ Beatie whispered to Robin. She turned to Con and explained, `She did so want people to sing.’ Con began to sing, a little off-key:

  `For the beauty of the earth

  For the beauty of the skies

  For the love which from our birth

  Over and around us lies. . . .’

  Robin turned to look at Kerren. She was walking very slowly and the simple bouquet of cornflowers and pink carnations shivered in her hands; her head was down, Robin could only just see her white face puckered in an attempt to hold back the tears. Adam, his back very straight, bent his head and whispered encouragement; Robin was impressed by a quality of tenderness she had never suspected in him. As they passed, the smell of the flowers, fresh and sweet, came to her mingled with the dust of stone and plaster.

  They stood at the altar steps, Peter tall in the dark uniform, Kerren like a child beside him in the simple white dress. The sun had moved along the side of the building and a slim finger of light was stealing across the southern aisle. The voices during the ceremony were too faint to hear. During the prayers Robin could not see Peter and Kerren; there was only the altar and the still figure of the Virgin beyond. She rested her forehead against the hard wood of the pew in front of her; suddenly she cared quite a lot about Kerren and she prayed, `Oh God, please, please let Kerren be happy!’ Then they stood again, and beside her Beatie sang sweetly:

  ` “O perfect love, all human thought transcending

  Lowly we kneel in prayer before Thy throne

  That theirs may be the love that knows no ending . . .” ’

  Robin gripped the pew in front so tightly that Con asked her if she wanted to go out in the fresh air. `No,’ she answered. `I must see her when she comes down the aisle.’

  When at last she came out of the vestry her face was radiant and the tears in her eyes only heightened the impression of happiness. She came slowly down the nave and as she passed through the dust-speckled shaft of sunlight the church seemed warm and alive. Beatie whispered, `It’s terribly touching, isn’t it? She’s so happy!’ Con said, `Why doesn’t anyone ever notice the groom?’ Robin, moved by a sudden surge of affection, hurried out into the porch and showered them with confetti.

  `Made in the met. office!’ she shouted. `The 0800 chart.’

  Kerren laughed delightedly. `Including the Irish, I hope.’

  Con took snaps and there was some awkwardness because he had to be careful to take the good side of Peter’s face. Adam was talking to Peter’s uncle and aunt. He was being very courteous and correct and Robin felt unaccountably shy with him, as though he was not the man she knew in the met. office.

  After the photographs had been taken, they went to the Wessex Hotel in Templedene for a buffet meal. Peter’s aunt had insisted on the Wessex because it was the only hotel in Templedene that still had a good reputation. Its food was not as good as its morals, but there was a lot to drink. Kerren hardly drank at all. `I can’t keep anything down,’ she explained happily. Peter drank for both of them. Robin thought that he had changed quite a lot since he went to Lee; the sea wind had tanned his face, but he was thinner and looked more worn. He really had an undeniably decadent appeal now.

  When Kerren went up to the cloakroom to change Robin ran after her.

  `I hope you’ll be happy.’ She really meant it. She had had several drinks and they had released all her goodwill. She helped Kerren with the zip of her dress and Kerren tripped over the hem getting out of it. She kept asking Robin whether she thought everything had gone well.

  `It was a wonderful wedding.’

  `Because I value your opinion more than anyone else’s.’

  `It’s the best wedding I’ve ever been to.’

  `You know about these things, you’re so . . .’

  `Peter really is quite something. I wasn’t sure about him at first. . . .’

  `I know you weren’t; I’ve always known. . . .’

  `But you’ve really got something there. If it wasn’t for Con. . . .’ Somehow or other Kerren was in a short dress now, dark blue linen, very straight; it was difficult to do up the zip because she had put on weight. `I couldn’t buy a new dress, the wedding dress took all my money.’ Robin folded the wedding dress and packed it carefully in a suitcase while Kerren put on a stone-coloured travelling coat which Cath had lent her. The idea of Cath in anything but bellbottoms and a seaman’s jersey seemed fantastic, but Robin noticed that the coat was stylish in an unemphatic, expensive way. Con was banging on the door, shouting for them to hurry otherwise Kerren and Peter would miss the train. Robin kissed Kerren.

  `I hope you’ll be very happy.’

  She was quite tearful and they were both a little embarrassed. The occupants of the bar, whether they were members of the wedding party or not, turned out to shout after the car as it went away. A friend of Peter was taking the couple to the station. Con said:

  `A good job Peter’s not driving; I don’t think they’d get very far.’

  Adam said, `Yes.’ He did not sound very happy. Robin was rather surprised, because Adam drank quite a lot himself and was not by nature censorious.

  Beatie sighed, `All over! For us, at any rate . . .’

  She did not think it was all over for them, Robin appreciated; she was just giving the men an opportunity to turn their thoughts to the evening. Con took the hint.

  `I seem to have had an awful lot to drink and very little food.’ He looked at Adam. There was not much Adam could do but to suggest that they had a meal together. He did this with a good grace: he was amused by Beatie.

  It was half-past three. They agreed to stroll by the stream for an hour or so and then come back to Templedene for a meal in the evening. So Beatie had a chance to paddle after all. Robin thought she looked absurd, like one of those silly Victorian paintings, holding her skirt up and pretending to miss her balance, squealing every time she took a step and the water came higher. The men enjoyed it. Con told her she must not think anyone would come in after her if she fell over, but Robin guessed he would be there pretty quickly. Even Adam entered into the tiresome performance, rolling out `Lord Ullin’s daughter’ in broad Scots. Robin closed her eyes and pretended to sleep; it was terribly hot and the drink had made her feel sick. She hoped it was not going to be a wild evening.

  At five o’clock they went back to the Wessex, which had a goodsized cloakroom. As they prepared their faces, Beatie said:

  `You didn’t mind our joining up, did you?’

  `Why ever should I?’

  `I thought you might want to be with Con on your own.’

  `Good Heavens, no! I was going to suggest it anyway.’

  Beatie always maintained that she only used make-up to highlight her good points, but as she had a lot of those it took a long time. To Robin’s surprise, she did not fluff her blonde hair around her shoulders the way she usually did when she was away from the camp; instead, she combed it back from her face and arranged it sleekly behind her ears. The result was highly sophisticated and Robin wondered how Con would react.

  The men were waiting in the hall, looking rather bored, when they eventually emerged. Con seemed a little startled when he saw Beatie, Robin had the impression that he did not know quite what was expected of him. Adam commented immediately:

  `You look like Norma Shearer.’

  She pouted, `I’m not flattered.’

  `Are you not?’ He raised his eyebrows.

 
`She’s old.’

  `Ah, but she was young in my day.’ He held the door for her and as she went through she gave him her slow, provocative smile and murmured, `Men become more attractive when they’re older, though.’ Robin supposed you didn’t have to be subtle when you had Beatie’s looks.

  She and Con fell into step behind. Robin’s relief that Beatie was not interested in Con was tempered by disappointment because he had lost value. During the meal Adam and Beatie did most of the talking. Beatie’s conversational level was not high but she had a way of saying things that made it seem as though something very witty was concealed beneath the most artless remark. There was a lot of activity overhead; there had been a daylight raid and the bombers were coming back now. Robin listened to the irregular throb of an engine as she toyed with an over-ripe pear.

  `It seems terrible, sitting here wining and dining while the last of the Few are sweating it out up there,’ she said, trying to give a lift to the conversation.

  `They’ll be wining and dining as soon as they get into the mess,’ Beatie pointed out.

  Robin, feeling that she had been made to seem serious, ate the pear in silence. Over the coffee, Beatie said to Adam:

  `It was a noble gesture of yours to support Kerren today.’

  `Now why do you say that?’

  `The occasion is a little sentimental for your taste – perhaps?’ A lift to the voice on the word `perhaps’; it was astonishing how seductive she could make it sound.

  `On the contrary, I am very sentimental at heart.’

  `But how nice.’ Beatie exhaled smoke and watched it spiral upwards. Her dialogue might be corny, but you couldn’t fault her timing, Robin reflected. Beatie sighed as the smoke dispersed and said, `I suppose we are all sentimental at heart.’

  `Brothers and sisters under the skin,’ Adam agreed.

  `I wouldn’t put it . . . quite like that.’

  Another plane went over so low that they had to stop talking. Robin glanced at Con. He looked rather baffled. She thought that compared with Adam his face was not so much inscrutable as untouched, the face of a man to whom nothing of importance has yet happened. She was glad when they finished the meal. To her irritation, Con insisted that they should have a drink with him in the bar to complete the evening. She had been hoping to have some time with him on her own. She glanced across at Beatie, hoping that Beatie would put matters right. But Beatie knew when not to push a man; if you wanted something, there was always time for it. She left it to Adam, and Adam had no intention of finishing the evening alone with Beatie. Robin grumbled, `We shall have to fight our way in there.’ They were in the hall and they could see the people standing shoulder to shoulder in the bar; Con asked whether there was anywhere else they could go. Robin walked to the door while they talked among themselves. A cool night breeze blew in. It looked peaceful in the street.

  `Not feeling so good?’ Beatie called to her. Robin turned and saw Beatie standing between the two men, laughing and looking fresh as morning. She turned away. The street was not so peaceful now; someone was running and shouting. She stepped out on to the porch. There was a woman running in the most extraordinary way, her hands held out in front of her as though snatching at the air to hasten her progress. Robin watched her hurl herself down in a doorway. There was someone else, lying in the gutter. And then Robin saw the plane moving silently up the street, blazing from nose to tail like a gigantic torch. Suddenly there was a sound that went on and on and on, tearing the night apart. Con said `Stop that!’ and then the world tilted and he crashed on top of her. She must have hit her head on the wall because she could see stars; then she saw that the walls were down and the stars were real. Only the porch remained and she was lying in its shelter. There was a terrible smell of burning and she could see men running, silhouetted in a deep red light. Beside her there was a cup, not even chipped. This struck her as very funny; it must be the only unchipped cup in England. She picked it up, it had lipstick on it and this made her feel sick. Someone in a tin hat was crawling towards her. She waved the cup at him cheerily. To her right, a man with a blackened face and torn clothes who was tugging at a charred piece of timber said, `Christ!’ It was Adam’s voice, hoarse. Suddenly the nightmare was real. She croaked, `Con! He pushed me, he . . .’ Adam shouted, `Get her out of here!’ The man in the tin hat hauled her to her feet. She pulled away, stumbled over a mound of smoking bricks. There was a table and a broken chair in among the bricks and beside the chair a tangle of bone and bloody flesh from which the intestines spewed obscenely. Adam was pulling her away. She tried to claw at the rubble and her fingers grasped something. `Con!’ she screamed, `Con!’ Then, miraculously, he was beside her, talking to her while she stared uncomprehendingly at the front page of the paybook she had picked up, at the bloodstained picture and the words printed underneath: `Beatrice Flack.’

  Chapter Twelve

  `. . . and the time she said Martin Berry was different from other men because he didn’t just turn over and go to sleep afterwards . . .’

  Jessie closed the cabin door. Through the window she could see them huddled together exchanging recollections; Naomi larding her face with cream, the air mechanics stripping off their greasy overalls. Hazel putting her hair in curlers. It was just like any early evening session in Cabin 8. Jessie wheeled her bicycle slowly down the cinder track. Perhaps she should have stayed with them; but it would seem so dreadful if none of Beatie’s cabinmates went to the service the padre was holding in the chapel. Jessie got on her bicycle and wobbled towards the lane that led to A camp. Dixie, Daphne Palmer and several others were waiting for transport; they were wearing their best suits and their solemn faces were immaculately made-up. Not many of them had liked Beatie.

  `The only reason they’re going is to see which of the men turn up,’ Naomi had said.

  It was a nice evening, still and warm. Jessie was sweating when she got to the chapel. She leant her bicycle against the corrugated iron wall; it slipped and crashed down. `Trust me to drop a clanger at a time like this!’ she thought. She took out a dirty handkerchief and scrubbed round her face and neck. Her mouth felt dry and her heart was thudding when she went into the chapel. This was her first memorial service.

  She had never been in the chapel before. She had heard people say it was depressing, but it did not seem so to her because where she came from most of the chapels were built in the same style as the miners’ halls and were bare of ornament. At least there was plenty of light in the Nissen hut and there were bright flowers on the table which served as an altar. There was a cross, too. She was uneasy about the cross which she had been brought up to associate more with the devil than with God. To evade its influence, she sat at the back. She was not quite sure what she ought to do. She would like to have prayed; but there was not much she could say, seeing as Beatie was dead anyway. She looked down at her hands, red and rough, clasped in her lap, and tried to think about Beatie. She had had difficulty in thinking of anything else ever since the news came through; but now that she was here to pay her last respects to Beatie her mind kept wandering and she found herself thinking about the way the chain on her bicycle repeatedly came off. `It’ll do it in the middle of the duty runway one day, then I’ll ’ve had it,’ she thought.

  The hut began to fill up. Most of the congregation were Wrens, although a few of the men from the flight where Beatie had worked were there, sitting together, men and officers – Beatie had been popular with all ranks. On the other side of the aisle, Dixie looked more fragile and remote than ever and Daphne Palmer fixed her blank eyes on the cross and tilted her head slightly in a way that showed her classic profile to the best advantage. The other girls looked self-conscious, not quite sure what expression was appropriate to the occasion. Whenever a newcomer arrived, heads turned and sidelong glances followed the progress down the aisle, the front seats being the only ones unoccupied now. Only a few Wren officers came, the blue braid was not popular on this camp and this was an occasion when its intrusion
would have been particularly resented; but First Officer W.R.N.S. was present, an elderly, white-haired woman looking rather perplexed because she had so far failed to bring Beatie to mind. The Commander came because, unlike the Captain, he felt some responsibility towards the personnel of the camp. Number One was with him; a cheerful, bearded man who had been a great friend of Beatie and had joined her in many lewd sketches at the camp concerts. To the Wrens’ disappointment, the Paymaster Commander, about whom many rumours were circulating, did not come.

  Behind her, Jessie heard someone whisper, `Hope the padre hasn’t forgotten!’ Jessie had a nervous desire to start singing `Why are we waiting?’ Fortunately at this moment a door at the side of the hut opened. The padre came forward, stooping from his great height, his head thrust forward, his eyes not looking straight at anyone but seeming to search for something he had left in a dark corner. Now that all the dark corners were filled, he seemed dismayed and he stood still for a moment, looking furtive, like a timid animal whose escape hole has been blocked. Crowds defeated him; he felt their insensitivity and their mockery and this transformed him into a parody of a clergyman mouthing the accepted banalities. His reaction now was typical; he picked a few prayers at random from the burial service and read `The Lord is my Shepherd’. Then he described Beatie as a daughter in Christ and said that all the trumpets had sounded for her on the other side. There was a snuffle of laughter at this, but he suppressed it with deadly, uncontrived effect by talking about those who lay down their lives for their country as though Beatie had died defending a bridgehead instead of standing in a country hotel. From there it was a natural step to the quoting of `For the Fallen’. The words, spoken rather falteringly because he was now so disturbed as to be on the verge of complete forgetting, seemed to hover in the air and then to flutter, like leaves swirling and finally settling over Beatie’s bright image. At last, his rag bag exhausted, he suggested with the inspired artlessness of the true clown that the assembled company should sing, `Blessed are the pure in heart’.