by MARY HOCKING
Kerren had grown careful. She observed Peter’s moods and tried not to irritate him. When he was angry her face went blank like someone who will not acknowledge pain. She did not often defend herself. It angered Con to see her at such times. He hoped he would never do this to a woman.
`Have you enjoyed your leave?’ he asked her the night before she and Peter left St. Ellery.
`It’s been lovely.’ She was learning to lie, too.
Con was appalled and repelled by Peter; but he was unable to pity him, partly because of some lack in himself, partly because his instinct of self-preservation told him not to become too involved. Yet he was conscious of standing aside. It was like watching a man savaged; the spectacle diminished him. He never felt quite the same about himself again.
Kerren, sitting in the train on her way back to Holly Green, watched the countryside, clear in the cool October sunlight, and thought how monotonous it was, this endless pattern of fields and hedgerows lying still beyond the marching telegraph poles. She was sorry when the telegraph poles slowed down and she knew that she was coming into Templedene. Robin had said that she would meet her at the station, and Kerren wished now that she had told her not to bother.
Robin greeted her very brightly and said, `I want to hear all about it.’ But in fact she really wanted to relate all the camp gossip. Kerren listened. She had meant to tell Robin that she had seen Con, but as this would lead to emotional exchanges she decided to say nothing about it for the present.
Chapter Seventeen
Late autumn was no time to be in the country. The land might not be dead yet, but it had already turned its back on man and had nothing more to offer him. The trees in the wood at B camp were ragged as tattered candyfloss; mounds of leaves clogged the drains outside the ablution block and the tyres of the trucks had bitten deep into the soft earth in the lane leaving great gashes which would not heal until the spring. The first winter chill was in the air and soon the long battle with the stoves must commence.
`It will take hours to get that sodding thing going for the first time,’ Naomi said, looking at the stove with the grudging respect due to a tenacious enemy. `We’re not lighting it tonight.’
No one argued with her. On the evening before Captain’s rounds there was no time for an assault on the stove; drawers must be tidied, electric irons hidden away, order restored to the luggage room and the cabin floor polished. Robin was duty Wren and she considered that this excused her from any activity in her own cabin; so she lay on her bunk watching the others working and occasionally giving them advice. When she tired of this she read a book of poetry she had taken from Kerren’s chest of drawers.
`Have you noticed that Robin gets the culture bug regularly once a week?’ Marney murmured.
Robin smiled blandly and turned another page. She looked at her most attractive lately. Her eyes were bright, the lashes lightly brushed with mascara; her hair, sleek from constant brushing, was cut short and flicked vampishly over one eye. She fancied herself vastly. In spite of her laziness, she was benevolent and full of goodwill to all. Kerren was the difficult one. She was capering about with a broom now, getting in everyone’s way and chattering endlessly. Naomi had already complained that it was like living with a monkey. Robin put out a hand and caught Kerren’s arm as she whisked by.
`Just before you drop dead from exhaustion – or we do – let me show you this one. I rather care for it.’
Kerren put down the broom and took the book.
`There,’ Robin pointed. `I like that bit beginning “For those whose laughter . . .” ’
Kerren read,
` “For those who leave no trace
Their heirs these times;
For those unlovely heroes:
For those whose fingers fall
On iron for love
On weariness for pillows:
For those whose laughter went
Out with the light
In any evening’s danger:
For young and old who die
At every hour
Now life is sole and solemn monument.” ’
` “For those whose laughter went out with the light . . .”,’ Robin repeated. `That’s Beatie, isn’t it?’ She sighed; she had reconciled herself to Beatie’s death by now and was inclined to be dramatic about it.
`I hate the poets with their neat little epitaphs. They make me sick and so do you!’ Kerren flung the book at her. `Lying to themselves and everyone else, making order out of chaos, giving it form and shape.’
`Jesus!’ Marney spat on the handle of the coke bucket and polished vigorously. `Intellectual argument at a time like this!’
Kerren picked up the broom and began rushing round the cabin pretending to be a witch. Her laughter blared loud and she played the game as though her life depended on it. Robin gave up trying to argue with her, read a few more poems, and then descended languidly from her perch.
`I’m sorry to leave you girls, but duty calls.’
She put on her raincoat, took a scarf and went to the door humming softly to herself. It was damp outside and the lane and the trees were indistinct as though she was seeing them through a smeared glass. There was an unmistakable harshness in her throat and an acrid smell in her nostrils. She wound the scarf round her head and the lower part of her face. She hoped that the anticyclone would move away soon; she did not want it to be foggy later in the month when Con came for his week-end leave. He would be staying at Starcombe and she had booked a place for herself at the Y.W.C.A. She had not told any of the others about this. As she went down the cinder track she encountered Jessie.
`You should be ashamed of yourself, Wren Buck,’ Robin admonished. `Now is the time when we must all give blood and sweat and toil and tears.’
`I’m hurrying back, aren’t I?’ Jessie’s sense of guilt was easily aroused. `It’s thick out on the flight.’
The activity was dying down when Jessie entered the cabin. Two of the air mechanics had almost finished tidying the luggage room and Cath was polishing the last section of the floor. Naomi was sitting in a chair painting her nails and Marney was lying on her bunk biting hers: an evening in the cabin always made Marney bite her nails. Jessie went to her chest of drawers and spent some time re-arranging the disorderly contents so that the drawers would shut. While she was doing this she enlivened the others with the latest news.
`I was at the control tower delivering a message and suddenly there was these dreadful screams from the airfield. Several of the flying control bods piled into the utilicon and roared off to the rescue. Only by then it was so foggy they couldn’t find the way back and the C.F.C.O. had to call them in. And do you know what it was all about? That dim little met. Wren, Sue, had lost her way!’ Jessie shut the lower drawer triumphantly and turned to Cath. `Will you set my hair for me?’
`As long as you wash it properly this time.’
Jessie went off to the ablution block.
`Try and give a bit of a style to it,’ Naomi said to Cath. `She takes even less trouble with her appearance lately.’
The change in Jessie puzzled them. She had worked on the farm when she was off duty during the summer and her skin was very brown and dry, her hair had become frizzy and the sun had bleached it. This weatherbeaten appearance made her seem much older, an impression which was heightened by the fact that her figure had filled out and she moved heavily. But more disconcerting than the change in her appearance was the change in her behaviour. Once she had been very malleable; now she was not responsive to criticism or ridicule. She no longer tried to match their jokes or to imitate their mannerisms, she was not envious of their conquests and she did not listen to their advice on how to get a man. It was a sad state of affairs, but one could not say that she was going to pieces. In fact, she was more sturdy than ever and working in the fields she seemed a handsome woman. It was only in uniform that she looked stolid and dowdy.
`She ought to wear more make-up,’ Naomi decided.
`Frank doesn’t
like make-up,’ Cath said.
Naomi stared down at Cath and nail varnish dripped on to the floor from the brush poised in her hand.
`Frank? You mean that Jessie still sees him?’
`Every moment they’re off duty.’
`There can’t be anything in it. He’s definitely a cut above Jessie.’ Naomi was affronted; on the occasions when she had danced with him he had made her feel that he was a cut above her, too.
`Jessie is one of the meek!’ Kerren announced, whirling in from the luggage room. `She will inherit the earth. Up with those bandy legs, Marney!’
She swished the broom under the bunk and cried out, `All finished, all finished, all finished!’ She put the broom away in a corner and climbed on to her own bunk. The others exchanged glances. They knew that she would be silent now. But it would not be the kind of silence that they understood, the silence of tiredness, of boredom, of contemplation. It was as though she had slipped anchor and was stealing out of harbour, leaving no ripple of consciousness in her wake. If anyone spoke to her, she would not answer; she would not notice any of the comings and goings in the cabin. But in spite of her almost trance-like state, she would not look peaceful.
There was something about Kerren’s silence that affected all of them that evening. Marney, lying on her bunk, felt imprisoned in this intolerable world of women and Naomi told herself that she must get a man, the Frenchman had been fun but he was in France and that was a long way away. Cath thought about Derek Mason, the squadron C.O., a coarse, swaggering man to whom she was shamefully but strongly attracted.
It was a relief when Jessie came back proclaiming loudly, `That old bag Hazel is sitting in the rec.! Any minute now she’ll come in and say the C.F.C.O. kept her working late.’ She rummaged in her drawer and produced a comb with several teeth missing and a brush matted with hair. They lectured her on her slovenliness while Cath set her hair.
Hazel appeared at nine o’clock. She carried a letter in her hand. They could guess what it contained before she told them.
`Mother has written again to say that she and Father want me to get a discharge and come home.’ She sat on a chair by the unlit stove and looked around in a vague, helpless way. `What’ll I do? I know they need me and I do love them so much. But the house terrifies me. I can’t go into rooms, touch things . . . I can’t. . . . I can’t go back!’
`Then don’t!’ Cath said. `You’ve got your life to lead, Hazel.’
There was a murmur of assent. Hazel put up a hand and stroked her chin. Her skin was dry and had little patches of scurf which she was constantly picking. She looked quite half-witted. It was as though she and Michael had together made a complete person and without him some essential vitality had drained from Hazel. It was only too easy to imagine what would become of her as the years dragged by. No new dress for the May Ball; instead a skirt, inevitably grey and too long, the hem dipping at the back, the blouse covered by a cardigan which slipped off one sagging shoulder. It was an appalling picture.
`I’ll tell you what to say,’ Naomi offered.
She sat beside Hazel. Her dark, greasy hair straggled around her swarthy face and in the dim light her eyes were black almonds; she looked more of a gypsy than ever and when she spoke she sounded wise.
`You must tell your mother that things are very hectic here and you couldn’t possibly ask for a discharge because you would be letting the navy down. Then suggest you talk it over when you go on leave. You’re going home at Christmas, aren’t you?’ Hazel gazed at her blankly and she repeated, `You are going home at Christmas, aren’t you, Hazel? Well then, by that time your people will have got over the worst of the shock.’
Hazel squinted down at the letter. `But what will I say?’
Naomi held out her hand. `Lend me your pen and find some paper.’
Naomi was still composing the letter when Robin came back. Robin had little patience with Hazel, but on this occasion she was helpful. She derived some comfort from Hazel’s misfortune. Hazel had taught her that there were worse evils than being rejected. Hazel’s parents wanted her to share their loss, her life would be a prolonged period of mourning. Robin could imagine what it would be like, this long faithfulness over the years: the cross planted in the Garden of Remembrance on Armistice Day, the insertion in the In Memoriam column – `In Proud Memory . . .’, the attempt to keep up with his war-time comrades, the endless endeavour to piece together a part of his life not of the greatest importance to him. Thank God, Robin thought, oh thank God, I’m just not wanted! She added one or two flourishes to the letter, imagining that her own mother was the recipient whose loving demands were being denied.
When they had finished the draft, Hazel thanked them and said she would go to the recreation room to copy it out. Usually she wrote her letters in the cabin, so they guessed that she did not intend to send it.
While Hazel was collecting writing paper and envelopes, Kerren got up and put on bellbottoms and a jersey. As she went to the door, Robin called out:
`It’s foggy now. You can report cloud on the deck all night.’
Kerren did not answer: they were glad when the door closed behind her.
Chapter Eighteen
The fog was dense on the airfield. Kerren kept to the centre of the perimeter track and pedalled at an even rate. Although she did not lose her way, she had an eerie hallucination that she could hear a plane hovering overhead. She was glad when she reached the control tower. There were two vans parked outside and a rating was sitting in one; he had his head half out of the window and he seemed to be listening.
`No damsel in distress now,’ Kerren assured him as she went into the building.
Sue was in the met. office, flustered and behind with her work.
`I haven’t done the obs. yet,’ she said. `It’s been such an awful evening . . .’
`I’ll do them,’ Kerren cut short her apologies. `Who’s duty officer?’
`Sub-Lieutenant Corder, and I don’t know where he is. It’s been such an awful evening . . .’
Kerren did not want to listen to Sue’s misadventures so she went out of the room and started up the stairs to flying control to read the wind. In weather like this the wind would be the least variable factor, but flying control at night still fascinated her. The big room with its windowed walls would be in darkness save for the lights over the control panel; she would see the dim shape of the flying control officer but she would not know who it was until the voice greeted her out of the darkness. She hoped that tonight it would be Jake, the Australian, who was sympathetic and a good listener. She wanted to tell him about her troubles with Peter. She went past the first floor where F, the C.F.I., and the H.F.D.F. staff worked during the day; all was silent here, but as she went up the stairs to flying control she was surprised to hear voices. In the room she saw one thing before anything else – hands spread out on the table, three gold rings on the sleeves. We must have been invaded to bring F here at night, she thought. But the only sound was a voice speaking through a barrage of atmospherics, a young voice, high-pitched with gaiety that flickered on the edge of panic.
`. . . sent me up on a routine weather flight, can you beat it! Jesus, when I get back I’m gonna . . .’
Jake intercepted, his voice very sober and steady. No one took any notice of Kerren as she crossed to the ladder that led to the roof. There was a man standing near the ladder, his hands behind his back, staring at the fog-smeared windows; as she went past him he muttered `poor little bastard!’ She recognised the C.F.I. The pilot’s voice rattled on, F cut in:
`Ask him how much petrol he’s got left.’
Kerren went up the ladder. The look-out had his collar turned up and a scarf wound round his face, yashmak-style. He did not turn his head as she stood beside him. She could hear the plane now, a Mosquito by the sound of it; it must have turned and was coming over again. She looked down. She might as well have buried her face in a mound of dirty cotton wool. Her eyes smarted, her throat was raw, her lungs laboured pa
infully. The Mosquito zoomed over, went away again, turned. . . . She was afraid to listen in case she heard the engine stall. She went down the ladder, her legs felt as though they were made of rubber and it was difficult to negotiate the rungs. Jake was speaking in a quiet, tight voice.
`There is no airfleld free of fog in the south of England except St. Merryn and that’s too far. So we’re going to try . . .’
Jake’s free hand moved along the edge of the table, the fingers clenching and unclenching. The C.F.I. was standing in the same position, staring out of the window. Kerren had the feeling that in spite of the fog he could see a very long way, farther than any of the others; whatever it was that he saw, there was nothing he could do about it. F was leaning forward so that the light from the control panel illuminated his face; he was no longer the terrifying little man with the piercing eyes, he was old, tired, ineffective. This was the twilight of the gods. Kerren went out of the room and started down the stairs. There were no windows here, but the blue electric light was smoky and she had the sense of the fog pressing against the walls, infiltrating through the bricks. Her heart was pounding and her chest ached.
Corder had returned to the met. office; probably he had been in the lavatory before, he was always in the lavatory when something important happened. Sue had gone and Corder was frowning over the chart.
`F keeps nattering about Dincote Hill, as though the met. office had planted it there!’ he said fretfully. He glared at the teleprinter which was clacking out reports from Greenland. `You’d think Hunter would come down at a time like this, wouldn’t you?’
