A TIME OF WAR

by MARY HOCKING

  `You’ll want pyjamas, won’t you? One or two collars and a tie. How many shirts?’

  Hazel shook her head, looked round vacantly, and then started to talk very fast.

  `You know what’s occurred to me? Michael’s come home. And Mummy sent this telegram so that I would be sure to get leave and we could all be together. Don’t you think that’s what’s happened?’

  The girls looked from one to the other. Robin ducked her head, making a search for something in her drawer. Jessie, sitting on a lower bunk, looked down at her splayed feet. Naomi said:

  `No, Hazel.’

  Hazel’s chin began to jerk, an unpleasant, unco-ordinated movement as though she had lost control of the muscles; the lower lip went slack, then the cheeks began to quiver. It was like watching a face gradually disintegrating. No one knew what to do. Soft animal noises came from Hazel’s parted lips and her eyes stared first at one, then at another of the girls, frightened, imploring, as though she did not understand what was happening to her and wanted help. They avoided her eyes.

  `You must pull yourself together for your parents’ sake,’ Naomi told her. `They are going to need your help now.’

  Hazel’s eyes wandered round the walls like those of a person in a strange room, searching for a familiar ornament that will give a sense of place. She looked the same when they saw her off the next day. She never lost the look.

  There was something very disturbing about Michael Peake’s death. The girls in Cabin 8 had lived with his image for so long, laughing about him, disparaging him; it didn’t seem fair that this should have happened to him. Kerren felt it particularly deeply. Michael Peake had seemed to have a place reserved for him in the future. When she had talked about where she and Peter would live, Hazel had responded by talking about the visits she would make to Cambridge when Michael was there. Kerren had never doubted that this was how it would be. One could imagine him at Cambridge; he would work hard and do rather well, he belonged there much more than in an anonymous grave in Holland. It seemed wrong that he should have been left to history and the poets – `Went the day well? We never knew . . .’ and that kind of thing. It was haunting, but it wasn’t Michael Peake. All the dead were poets or people who belonged in poems, people who could be solemnized in verse, gallant, valiant, gay, clear-eyed, angry, disillusioned, beautiful. Michael Peake did not belong in this exalted company; his death made the poetry irrelevant. For a time Kerren could think of nothing else. She came back from Yeovil on the late camp bus one evening and was very upset by a trivial incident.

  It was a dark evening, misty, chill, the smell of autumn in a town where the first meagre fires had been lit in invalid rooms. She had wandered around on her own, hating the town, and had been to a bad film. The late coach to the camp was crowded with sailors, not many Wrens. The windows steamed up in the dank air. The coach rocked along the narrow lanes and the more drunk of the sailors felt sick and kept quiet. The coach smelt of sweat and beer and petrol fumes. A few songs were sung, but something was wrong – the wrong crowd, the wrong night, the wrong mood – something. Then, just after the strains of `Lay that pistol down, babe!’ had died away, a sailor with a deep, melancholy voice began to sing `There’s a long, long trail a-winding. . . .’

  As she listened to the song, it was as though she heard drumming through the night the marching feet. She closed her eyes and saw, not the faces, not the uniforms, but the feet, only the feet, marching, marching, marching. She was glad when someone else reverted to `Lay that pistol down, babe!’

  Chapter Sixteen

  `How well you know me!’ Kerren wrote to Dorothy. `And what a sensitive reader you are! I thought I had concealed it rather well; but I do feel quite desperate sometimes. The cabin life is rather too depraved. It was exciting at first, of course; I blush to think of some of those early letters I wrote to you. But now the novelty begins to wear off. There is never a moment’s peace, never any privacy. And, of course, there is Marney. She never goes to parties or dances and at first we felt sorry for her. But we needn’t have worried. She is never without a man. When she is drunk we have to listen to all the details. In comparison, it makes the bawdy songs that Jess used to sing seem very innocent.

  `I don’t see much of Jess now. She and Frank go to the farm whenever she is off duty; she belongs there more than to the camp. I’m sure there’s something symbolic about it, but can’t decide in just what way. Robin and I are still great friends, but I see quite a bit of Cath, too. She is rather serious, but this is probably good for me.

  `The office is the one place I really should miss if I left here. I can’t imagine a met. office without dear Adam. But even the airfield atmosphere seems different. The squadron, for example. The first squadron pilots were like gods – “wild, wild men” as Robin put it. These fellows are the same vintage, but either they are different or we see them differently. One or two of them have twitch – which is just what it sounds, twitching of the eye and cheek muscles, indicating strain, beginning of the end. These particular pilots come into the met. office quite often. It’s pathetic. They pretend to be lazy and try to get us to say that the weather is too bad for them to fly. Of course, there are those that revel in it and do mad things. Two of them were killed doing aerobatics in a Reliant of all things the other day. One gets rather tired of this type of pilot; they are either a little frightening, with a real lust for violence, or they’re the most terrible bores. Peter loves flying, of course; but it’s the remote purity of it that appeals to him, not the danger. At least, that’s how I think he feels. But, oh Dorothy, he’s been away so long and his letters aren’t very communicative. I expect this explains why I’m so chocker. Although I find high-minded reasons for my discontent, I suppose its origins are pretty basic, really.

  `But, thank goodness, he’ll be on leave soon. And this leads to something I want to ask you. (Poor Dorothy! Another chore.) Mummy and Daddy will expect us to come home. But you know what it will be like if we do. They’ll want us to meet family and friends; and they’ll arrange for Peter to see places, the Giant’s Causeway, the Glens of Antrim, the Mournes, Strangford Lough – you know how Daddy loves to do the Tour (“don’t imagine you have to go to the South to see the real Ireland!”). And Peter and I want to be alone. A week is such a short time. So I’m not coming over this leave. I shall write to Mummy and explain, but I’m afraid that however hard I try to break it gently, she will be hurt. Do you think you could drop in one evening and tell her that you can understand how I feel and would behave the same way yourself? You won’t make her understand; but she’ll think, “It’s the way the young ones are these days”, which is better than thinking that it’s just me, her daughter, who’s the odd one. She’ll be bewildered, but she’ll be philosophical about it if she feels the whole generation is going to the bad. . . .’

  Peter came on leave a week later. Kerren had wanted to go to the Yorkshire moors where they could stay in a crofter’s cottage and would not see another human being during the whole week. He had dismissed this suggestion with, `They don’t have crofters’ cottages in Yorkshire and what would we eat?’ There was, he wrote, a nice little fishing village on the Cornish side of the Tamar estuary; they could stay there and if the weather was not good they would be able to get into Plymouth quite easily. Kerren was disappointed, she passionately wanted him to herself this time.

  `Now don’t get intense about it,’ Cath warned. `You’ve only got a week; it’s too short a time to spoil a minute of it by sulking.’

  `I never sulk.’

  `But he will if you natter at him.’

  `He’s above that kind of thing.’

  Cath, who had worked on the flight where he was an instructor, doubted this, but she had the sense to keep quiet. Kerren took her advice and submitted without protest to Peter’s suggestion. She booked a room at a hotel in the village of St. Ellery. Her cabinmates were glad when the time came for her to go on leave.

  `The last few days have put me off marriage,’ Robin rem
arked. `I don’t think I’d have the stamina for it.’

  `Let’s hope he has,’ Naomi said.

  Kerren expected a great deal of Peter; this was apparent from the moment she caught sight of him on the platform at Exeter. She had worked herself into a state of extreme excitement during the journey and now she fell upon him like a summer torrent, taking his breath away. He was mortified by the inadequacy of his response, but she scarcely seemed to notice; there was an aura of brightness round her, radiant as a diamond and as hard to pierce. He turned away, feeling excluded, and pretended to be very concerned about the lateness of the Plymouth train.

  `Anyone would think it was the last train out of a beleaguered city, the way you’re behaving!’ she laughed. `There’ll be another one tomorrow.’

  At that moment the loudspeaker began to blare an incomprehensible announcement. Kerren paused to listen and Peter watched her. Although her head was still, her face seemed to be in perpetual motion; her eyes were as constantly changing as water which mirrors the race of cloud across the sky and her slightly parted lips trembled at every ripple of elation which stirred within her. Peter said hoarsely, `I love you.’ She looked up, surprised by the urgency in his voice, and he kissed her hard on the mouth. Unprepared, she laughed and said, `Have a care, there!’ and this time he was angered by the inadequacy of her response.

  The voice over the loudspeaker had stopped and a train was steaming slowly alongside the platform. Peter asked a woman porter where the train was going. She did not know, but as a great many sailors were getting on it, Kerren and Peter decided that it must be the Plymouth train.

  Peter had a first class warrant and insisted on using it. The corridor was jammed with soldiers and sailors, sitting on kit bags; the windows were steamed up and the lavatory smelt abominably. The first class compartments were empty. Kerren hoped that Peter would tell the men to come in, but he pulled the door to firmly behind him. The sudden emptiness seemed more intrusive than company. Kerren, a little uneasy, talked rapidly about what they would do on leave. To Peter, her exuberance seemed to have its source in her own nature rather than in her feeling for him. After a time, he got up and went along to the lavatory. When he returned they lapsed into silence. Kerren noticed that he was thinner. His face was tanned but the shadows beneath the eyes had not been made by sun or wind. He was restless, his fingers worked incessantly, plucking at the upholstery or tapping on the wooden frame of the window. Kerren thought, `I really must keep quiet and give him a chance to unwind.’

  At Plymouth a Commodore got into their compartment. As they left it, Kerren heard him say to the rating who was putting his luggage on the rack, `Tell those men out there to fill up these empty compartments.’

  `We should have done that,’ she said to Peter. But he was in a hurry to find transport to take them to the Torpoint ferry and he paid no attention. When they reached the ferry she forgot everything in the excitement of seeing the boats in the estuary. There were two cruisers flying the tricolour, several destroyers and one or two corvettes. Her eyes scanned the surface of the water eagerly.

  `I simply have to see a submarine.’

  `You won’t. I knew a Wren who was in the Moat here for over a year and she didn’t once see a sub. come in.’

  `What Wren?’

  He lowered his eyelids in the insolent way that reminded her of the first time she met him. Quite suddenly she realized how much she loved him and it took her breath away.

  `A sizzling red-head, like Rita Hayworth.’ He put his arm round her waist and drew her close to him. `We had a passionate affair.’ She did not care about the red-head, the submarine or the wide sweep of water, she did not care whether it was noon or night; she was aware only of the warm singing of the blood. Peter said:

  `Actually, she was my cousin. A dumpy, pug-nosed little thing.’

  `Like me?’

  `Much more docile.’

  The ferry began to move out and he leant over the rail, pulling her forward with him. She watched the froth of water falling away behind the boat, like lace ruched over dark silk; the soft wind combed her hair and she could taste salt on her lips. She wished it was the Atlantic they were crossing, so that they could stand together like this for endless days; but ahead there was a long green finger of land and already she could see people waiting on the landing stage.

  `Celts,’ Peter said, seeing her gazing at them. `Half-civilized folk.’

  `The leaven in your dull English bread!’

  He bent and kissed her, that same hard, urgent kiss which was disconcerting as a familiar voice speaking a strange language.

  When they got off the ferry the bus for St. Ellery was waiting. Kerren wanted to leave the cases in the bus and walk, but he said it was a stiff climb to the other side of the peninsula and for once she did not argue. Ten minutes later, at the brow of a hill, they had their first glimpse of the village, a grey huddle of stone at the sea’s edge. As the bus wound its way down, past fields still a lush green, Kerren peered out of the window and saw, over the slate roofs of the houses, the jetty and one or two boats on the small pebble beach. It was a dour little place, completely absorbed in its struggle with the sea, but the stoniness reminded her of Ireland and she liked it.

  She had booked a room at The Crossed Keys and while Peter went with the driver to get their cases out of the boat, she looked round. The bay lay immediately ahead; behind her was a row of fishermen’s cottages and an inn, the name of which she could not make out. It looked a good place for a drink but not comfortable to stay in. She turned away, disappointed, and as she did so she noticed a hotel on the low sea wall; the building bellied like the prow of a ship. The tide was coming in, at high tide the spray would break right over the hotel. The part of her that liked wildness in a landscape was roused by this image. She crossed the road. The door was open and framed in it she could see a bowl of anemones on a low table and beyond a window through which she saw the sea. There was nothing bleak or wild about it; the anemones, the window and the sea framed in the doorway had the serene immobility of something outside time. It was surprisingly satisfying.

  `Is this it?’ Peter asked coming up with the cases.

  She looked up and saw the sign that said The Crossed Keys. `Yes, it is! And it’s enchanting, don’t you think?’ She took his arm and squeezed it as they stepped across the threshold. He said irritably, `You’re bumping the cases.’

  The proprietress, a dark woman with a strong Cornish accent, examined them with an interest as sharp and impersonal as a bird’s while they signed the register. Then she took them up to their room. It was small, with a low ceiling and a tiny window in the sloping, sea-facing wall. It was very clean, but smelt rather damp.

  `If you want anything, let me know,’ the woman said. Her tone made it clear that she did not expect to hear from them again.

  `Sea!’ Kerren cried to Peter from the window. `Nothing but sea from here to the world’s end! Come and look.’

  `In a minute. I must find the loo.’

  `You have no soul,’ she accused him, but he had already gone.

  They had dinner in the hotel and argued about what they should do afterwards. Kerren was eager to explore the village but Peter wanted to have a drink and go to bed and in the end he had his way. Up in the small room they suddenly felt like strangers trapped together. Kerren’s exuberance died away and she wanted more than anything else to be comforted and reassured. But he was impatient and his love-making had no tenderness; because he had made her love him when she was not ready she felt that she had cheated not only him but herself. He slept restlessly and she lay awake listening to the sound of the sea which reminded her of the incessant, harsh whispering she had heard when as a child she held a shell close to her ear. She felt an overwhelming grief for that lost childhood, a sense of having come too far too quickly, and a terror of the unknown, of the years ahead bound to the stranger lying beside her. She hoped the next day would be better.

  It was, in fact, all that she had
hoped for. She woke early with that sense of wonder she always experienced waking in a strange room. The simple white dressing table, the one faded rug, were entrancing in their unfamiliarity, as was the smell of the oil used on the woodblock floor. The window framed a whole new world; a world in which the light, because it was light over water, had a quality all its own. For some reason, she did not invite Peter to share this magic moment with her, but allowed him to sleep on. By the time he woke, the sun was bright and this put him in a good mood. They had a quick breakfast and went out.

  They walked in the morning and in the afternoon they sat on the grass in a fold of the hill overlooking the sea. Kerren wore a pair of green slacks and a cherry sweater lent by Hazel. After so many years in which the predominant colours had been navy and battleship grey, Peter could not tire of looking at her.

  `I’m sure I can see a submarine’s periscope,’ she said.

  `That’s nonsense!’ he answered, looking at her breasts softly outlined beneath the cherry sweater. `No sub. could come in close here.’

  `A friend of Naomi’s had a baby by a submariner.’

  `Did it have webbed feet or something special?’

  `You never take anything I say seriously.’

  `On the contrary,’ he pulled her down beside him. She felt his fingers slide beneath the sweater, moving against her breasts. She wanted to lie like this, at peace with each other, and this time he seemed to understand for he was very patient and waited a long time, caressing her gently. At first, she could hear the sea moving over the pebbles and then later she did not know whether it was the sea or the drumming of her own awakened blood, whether it was the soughing of the wind or her own moaning sighs that she heard. It was so perfect, she did not expect to come through it, to get up afterwards and go back to the village.