by Rosie Archer
‘We left Southampton for France full of good cheer with a bloody band playing “Run Rabbit Run” an’ I’ve been running ever since. We drove through Le Mans, then Lille and other little towns, where the girls handed us wine and bread and blew kisses at us. You’d have thought we was on holiday.It seems months ago now. This is a bloody long winter.’ He sighed, and Blackie saw how tired he was beneath the grime that covered his face.
‘I always thought the first men to be sent to France would be experienced soldiers, not the Territorials like me,’ said Blackie.
‘What the fuck do you think I am?’ The corporal glared at him. ‘I’m experienced.’
The war was making strange bedfellows, thought Blackie. Regulars and TAs in the same foxhole. Who’d have thought it? One thing he was certain of: he wouldn’t trust this bastard any further than he could throw him. The things he was saying made sense in a disjointed way but something wasn’t quite right. Maybe the fighting had got to him and turned his brain. That happened to a lot of men. Had he really got cut off from his unit behind enemy lines to end up back here?
‘Our boys were horribly sick on the crossing to Cherbourg,’ Blackie said. ‘The Channel was heaving and so were we. The bloody crossing took fourteen hours. Talk about dehydrated and stinking of vomit. Our first stop was Château de Varennes. I can’t tell you how bloody excited I was a few days later when we stopped near the racing circuit at Le Mans, at the army’s big supply depot.’
‘I know it well,’ said the corporal.
Of course you do, thought Blackie. The man was one of those who knew everything.
‘Did you know it’s left over from the first war?’
Now what was the corporal on about?
‘Bully-beef. That’s why it’s practically inedible.’
Blackie sighed. Still, he could be right, the food was bloody awful. But the intense cold was even worse.
He wasn’t allowed to leave the observation post until a patrol returned to relieve him, though he had been surprised to find the corporal already there after he’d crawled along a short tunnel covered with icy bushes. The bloke he’d relieved didn’t seem to find it strange that there were two men in the foxhole, so why should he?
Every sector of the front had similar positions to conceal men for several hours so they could observe and report enemy movements. Blackie had a field telephone that connected him to company headquarters. Usually it was a lonely job being in the foxhole and at first he’d been glad of the corporal’s company. But now the man was getting on his nerves and he was wondering where he had come from. He wasn’t from Blackie’s regiment. Was he a deserter? There was one way to find out. He opened his mouth to ask.
‘Ssh!’
Blackie heard a terrible rumbling noise, growing ever louder, so heavy the earth shook. Then it stopped.
A jolt of fear ran through him.
There were voices, movement. Not the usual night sounds of animals or branches cracking with the cold.
A slit in the ice showed a German tank had come to a halt not far from where he and the corporal were lying. For the first time that night Blackie thanked God for the falling snow that must have obscured the listening post. Now he could see men climbing from the tank and lighting cigarettes.
He looked into the narrowed eyes of the corporal and was certain he saw his own fear reflected there.
His hand hovered above the field telephone. He should send a warning back to headquarters. But to move would mean certain discovery, and after discovery would come a bullet. He could hardly breathe for fear, and all the time he was praying the corporal would not move a muscle.
Waiting was nerve-racking. The seconds seemed like hours. Just as Blackie was sure they would be found and killed, the three men began passing a metal flask among themselves. A burst of laughter pealed forth.
German activity had increased in the area recently – wasn’t there heavy artillery fire across the border daily? The bastards were everywhere.
He thought then of the sanitizing tactics the enemy used. A barrage of shells fired across a small area followed by Germans marching across the already decimated ground firing at anything or anybody remaining alive. Please, God, he prayed, don’t let that happen here.
The corporal was watching him, unmoving and silent. Blackie could barely hear the man’s breath. Outside in the snowy waste the men were talking. Blackie reached for the field telephone but the corporal stilled his hand and shook his head.
‘Let me,’ the man mouthed, and wriggled closer to Blackie. ‘Let my Rainey know I did one thing really good.’ He pushed the photograph and some letters at Blackie, and before Blackie could stop him he slithered out of the foxhole and stood up. From his belt he’d snatched a grenade and was now running towards the tank. One of the men dropped the flask he was holding.
A stab of gunfire erupted. The corporal had reached the Germans.
The flash almost blinded Blackie. Snow and metal were tossed into the air. He fell back against the wall of earth, stunned, his ears ringing from the force of the grenade blast.
Blackie could now see the body of one German lying twisted some small distance away. Nearer were the mangled body parts of other men. Of the corporal there was nothing.
The tank was untouched.
Despite the darkness the snow gave off an eerie whiteness that was now splattered with red.
Blackie could see the German’s eyes were open wide. There was no surprise on his face, just a ragged hole in his head.
He willed himself to keep still, his mind and body in turmoil.
Was anyone else in the tank, waiting? Would they come for retribution? Looking to make sure no one else was in the foxhole?
His hand stayed on the telephone until his fingers grew numb and were covered with ice.
He wondered if the shock had dulled his senses because he couldn’t fathom the time lapse between the blast that had killed the men, and the present. He thought of the corporal and his last words. What had they meant? That he had wanted to die was obvious. Was it to save him, Blackie, or to rid himself of some other torment? If so, that would explain his strange behaviour.
There was still no movement from the tank.
If he didn’t stretch himself he would freeze to death. His fingers moved stiffly over the telephone and, with great difficulty, he picked up the receiver and listened.
It was dead.
Now he had a choice. Either crawl from the hole in the snow and risk getting shot by the enemy or stay and allow the Germans to discover him. Then he would be shot for sure.
Blackie stared again at the dead men and the snow beginning to hide them.
He knew he must survive not only for his own sake but for the corporal, whose family deserved to know how brave he had been. His fingers, despite the freezing cold, felt for the letters and the photograph now in his pocket.
Blackie took a deep breath and began to crawl from the look-out post.
Chapter Seven
‘Want a sandwich, Ivy?’
‘That’d be nice, Bert.’ She looked up from the exercise book in which she was writing and smiled at the café proprietor. ‘Bacon?’
‘You want bacon, bacon it is. I had a delivery from a friend of a friend today.’ A piece of cigarette paper clung to Bert’s chin where he had nicked himself shaving.
It was warm in the Central Café on the corner of North Cross Street. Outside the streets were white with frost. Condensation ran down inside the windows and was soaked up by the grubby nets. Soon Bert would pull the blackout curtains across and eliminate the night.
Ivy heard the sizzle of fat in the pan and the enticing smell of bacon began drifting across to her, chasing away the stink of fags. She knew Bert sometimes bought goods from dubious sources, and he said those people would look after him when rationing came. Most people in Gosport were glad to get whatever they could find to feed their families. Bert’s family was his customers.
From the wireless on the shelf came band musi
c.
‘How did your mum get on with your teachers?’
‘How does she get on with anyone? They either love her or get put off by how she pays the rent.’
‘You shouldn’t say things like that, love. She worships the ground you walks on.’ Bert slapped two doorsteps of bread onto a board and spread them with margarine.
‘If I can’t be honest with you, who can I be honest with? We both know because of her lack of learning she wants better for me. Della’s my mum and I love her . . .’ Ivy was almost sixteen but the things that came out of her mouth often made her sound much older.
Bert, his grubby apron stretched over his ample gut, stood in front of the Formica table and set down her sandwich. Ivy looked at it happily. ‘Smells delicious.’
‘Get it down you. It tastes as good as it smells.’
Ivy used both hands and lifted the bread. She bit off a mouthful and chewed. ‘You must have known I had to get Mum out of bed when I got home from school so there wasn’t time for tea.’
Bert nodded. ‘I told you not to go hungry,’ he said. A frown replaced his gap-toothed grin.
Ivy reached out and patted his hand. ‘Mrs Wilkes went on and on about me being in the choir she’s got going.’
‘That’s good—’ Bert never got to finish his sentence.
‘Anyone servin’ in this place? A cuppa would be nice.’
Bert rolled his eyes. ‘No peace for the wicked,’ he said, and shuffled off to serve the customer.
Ivy watched him return behind the counter. The tables needed clearing. Used crockery and overflowing ashtrays showed he never lacked for customers. To Ivy it was familiar and comforting. When she’d finished eating she’d give Bert a hand. She watched him pour thick dark tea into a large white mug.
The thickset man said loudly, ‘That’s all you ’ad to do, mate, give us a cuppa.’ He banged his fist containing the tea money forcefully on the counter.
Ivy’s heart missed a beat. She didn’t want the man to cause trouble. Not that Bert couldn’t handle himself – he’d fought in the Great War and come out intact – but he had a little extra something up his sleeve, did Bert. Bert scooped up the money and she saw his eyes dart beneath the counter to where his walking stick stood propped ready if needed.
The shiny black stick held a secret. Bert could whip out the handle in the blink of an eye to wave a sharpened sword that glinted like silver in the electric light of the café. Ivy knew there was more to the story but she had yet to be told.
It usually did the trick of calming down unruly customers.
Bert didn’t need to use it this time. There was no bother: the man, satisfied now, took his tea and shuffled off, sitting down heavily at a table near the window.
‘Thanks, mate,’ called Bert, amiably. He looked towards Ivy and winked. She grinned back. Bert was like the father she’d never known. She trusted him. She knew he would always be there for her as long as they lived at the Central Café.
He said he was a rabologist, a collector of walking sticks. The swordstick had been his first acquisition. ‘You should never just look at a walking stick someone’s holding and ignore it,’ he’d told her. ‘Each stick tells a story.’
In his living accommodation on the first floor he kept his collection of more than a hundred. Each was similar, but with differences. Bert had told Ivy that canes and sticks turned up everywhere, especially in second-hand shops after house clearances. Her dearest wish was to present him with a type of stick he didn’t already possess.
‘Look at the carving on that,’ he’d said, the first time he’d shown her his collection. He’d held a lacquered stick with a fine bone handle. ‘Someone somewhere in China took trouble with that. I bet it could tell a few tales if it could talk.’
Ivy liked the sticks with carved animal heads best. She could imagine someone spending hours shaping the handles, perhaps to resemble pets they’d loved. Bert had offered a stick to Della that had spikes that folded into the handle. He’d told her it might even save her life if a client attacked her.
‘What do I need with that when I got Jim to protect me?’ She’d laughed, tossing her fox fur around her neck and allowing it to hang down over her ample breasts so it could stare at everyone with its sharp glass eyes.
Bert told Ivy that the earliest mention of a walking stick was in the Bible.
‘In the Book of Genesis, chapter thirty-two, Jacob said he’d crossed the Jordan with only his staff, which was a fancy name for a walking stick.’ Ivy liked listening to Bert: he knew a lot about all sorts of things.
She also liked living in the top flat above the Central Café. Flat? It was two rooms that looked down over Murphy’s, the ironmongers, and out towards Gosport ferry, where the boats, like squat beetles, crossed the harbour to Portsmouth. Those two rooms were home. Bert wouldn’t allow any ‘guests’ upstairs so Jim, her mother’s so-called friend, provided a room above the Crown near the bus station.
When Ivy was small and asked her mother where she went every night, Della had said, ‘I’m a sort of nurse. I look after patients and make them feel better.’
‘Can’t you do it at home?’ Ivy had asked. She didn’t like her mother leaving her.
‘Bless you, Ivy, Bert wouldn’t like that. Anyway, Jim’s my boss and when I tend my patients, Jim looks after me.’
Ivy disliked Jim because he looked at her funny, like he could see into the very core of her. Still, she didn’t have much to do with him, so it was all right. Every night her mother met Jim in the Fox next door to the Central Café. After a quick drink he took Della out to do ‘a bit of business’, as Della called it.
Ivy knew her mother’s business put food on the table and paid the rent.
When Ivy reached the grand age of fourteen she’d asked Della if she could leave school and go to work. If she was bringing home a wage her mother might stay at home more often.
‘You’ll leave school when I say you will and not before.’ She’d never seen her mother so angry. ‘Without an education you’ll end up like me. Is that what you want?’ Then she’d grabbed Ivy’s shoulders and shaken her until her head rattled – at least, that was what it had felt like. Then, just as suddenly, she’d stopped, pulled her daughter close and cried.
Much later, after Ivy had joined Mrs Wilkes’s choir she was immensely grateful that she had stayed on at school. She was put next to Bea, who was a year or so older than her, a girl full of life, though sometimes she could be withdrawn. Bea’s voice showed her fluctuating emotions.
Bea used to urge Ivy to join her and her much older friends for a drink in the Fox, but the thought of bumping into her mother and Jim put Ivy off. Besides, she wasn’t used to visiting pubs and much preferred the café.
Now she thought back to earlier in the evening when she’d seen Rainey Bird and her mother at St John’s. She liked Rainey. Her voice was clear, and all her words came out as if she’d had proper singing lessons. Rainey told her she hadn’t and couldn’t even read music. But she got all the words and tunes exactly right first time.
Mrs Wilkes said their voices complemented each other. How, Ivy wasn’t sure, because she thought she sounded like a foghorn. Mrs Wilkes told her that her voice was ‘smoky’ like Billie Holiday’s. Billie Holiday sang on the wireless and when Ivy heard her sing ‘Can’t Help Lovin’ Dat Man’ she thought Mrs Wilkes must have a screw loose in her head somewhere. If Ivy could sing like that she knew she’d have the world at her feet.
The café had emptied now. With the blackout curtains shutting out the weather and the night, the place looked homely. Her sandwich was eaten and Ivy yawned. She slapped her geography book shut and closed her wooden pencil box. She went round the tables collecting the used crockery and piled it on the counter ready for washing up. Bert called, ‘You should get upstairs, love.’
‘Want a hand with anything?’ she asked.
‘No. It’ll be quiet until the pubs turn out. Give me time to clear up.’
Ivy said goodnight as
she left through the side door that led up the uncarpeted stairs.
Chapter Eight
‘The government announces bigger family allowances for servicemen . . .’
Jo turned off the wireless. More money for service families meant nothing to her. She’d waived her right to any money from Alfie by running away from the house he’d provided for her and Rainey. She was sure there was no way she could collect anything without the army authorities becoming aware of her new address, and if that happened, Alfie would also find out where they were. It was not a risk she wanted to take.
‘Ready, Mum?’
‘Almost,’ answered Jo. She was using her fingernail to hook the last of the lipstick from its cylinder. She had another, Bright Cherry, but that one wasn’t her favourite.
‘We don’t want to be late.’ Rainey sounded peevish.
‘Not likely to be. The school’s only five minutes away.’ She caught Rainey looking at her in the mirror’s reflection and smiled.
Jo knew how important her first appearance at choir night was for Rainey. But Rainey wasn’t aware of how scared she was of meeting people. Yes, she saw new faces at the newsagent’s but that was different. She didn’t need to become friendly with them, only interact, and, besides, the large wooden counter was between them and her.
Today Syd Kennedy had come in, his teeth shining white in his oil-splodged face, and had stood discussing the weather with her. He’d made her laugh. He said the wind whistled through his garage workshop like a fart in a colander. Naturally she couldn’t help giggling. Then he’d gone red, blushing with awkwardness at his choice of words. Mrs Harrington had come in then with a cup of coffee and a bun for her so Syd had paid Jo for his paper and left hurriedly.
