As the door closed Prothero said, “You get on well together. “
“Yes, sir.” What the hell was wrong? His father, or had the house been bombed?
Prothero said, “I have to ask you something, and it’s important. “
Fifteen minutes later Allenby joined his friend in the passageway.
“I shall have to call you sir, now.” Allenby smiled, but it did not reach his eyes.
Frazer watched him thoughtfully. “Anyway, three weeks’
leave is not to be sneezed at, is it?”
Allenby looked away. “One week.”
Frazer faced him. “What d’you mean, one week?”
“I shall be recalled to do another operation.”
Frazer stared. “So soon? Who with, for Christ’s sake?” Allenby walked along the littered passageway, his mind still reeling with shock.
“On my bloody own, Keith, that’s who with!”
The next day Allenby stood in his own bedroom at home and stared out at the small back garden. The apple trees, his father’s pride and joy, were jet black against a thin layer of snow. It was cold. The whole house seemed chilly in spite of the fire blazing in the room below him.
He was sure it was imagination but his parents seemed so much older. He touched a pile of magazines on his chest of drawers. Stories he could repeat almost word for word. It would be funny if Prothero had written some of them. Tales of valor and war. Not like anything he had seen since he had joined the navy.
He tried to put the operation to the back of his mind. His father had already noticed his nervousness, an inability to sit still.
Like the time spent in convoy when he had tried to sleep. He had drawn the curtain to try and find privacy and seclusion. Not easy in a cabin you shared with five other young officers. And when he did sleep the pictures began to rise through his thoughts. The vivid flashes from the explosives he had hurled onto the transport’s deck, the solitary sailor who had surrendered, who Weeks would have shot down without barely considering it. And the girl who had tried to hide her nakedness from him, his own inability to deal with the matter, whereas Ives had been like a rock.
He sighed as he heard the clatter of cups and saucers. Tea. He went slowly downstairs and saw his mother’s surprise as she finished laying the table with her best plates.
“Your uniform, Dicky! What have you done?”
Allenby had changed into some old flannels and a sweater. Funnily enough, they seemed too big for him. Like Alice in Wonderland, he thought. The house got smaller with every visit, and his clothes got larger.
“You look a mess. You’ll have to change again. The Mannerings are coming round this evening.”
Allenby hated the Mannerings almost as much as he loathed being called Dicky. But they lived in the same road, always had, like his own parents. The male Mannering was a selftaught expert on the war. Neither of the Mannerings seemed to have first names. It would be a difficult evening. But it was his first. He would do what he could.
His father removed his pipe from his mouth and said, “Leave the boy alone, Mother. He’s had a hard time.”
Then she did something that was far worse than any complaint. She crossed the room and laid one hand on his cheek.
“I know. You don’t have to tell me. Look at him.”
Allenby sat down and said, “Different sort of war, that’s all. “
As his mother left the room for the huge teapot his father said, “Bad, was it?t”.
Allenby nodded, his eyes suddenly smarting. “Bloody awful. “
His father moved his artificial leg and smiled. “Don’t let your mother hear you swear.” He added, “How’s your Canadian chum?”
“Fine.” Allenby took a firm grip on himself. What was the matter with him? He had nearly cracked over nothing. He pictured Frazer in Cornwall, trying to decide how best to see
his Wren officer.
His father said, “Seven days’ leave. It’s not much in my view. “
“Oh well, you know how it is. We’re doing something new. All hush-hush. We shall be pretty busy.”
“Did you lose many, Dick?” His eyes were very steady. “You can tell me. You know that.”
Allenby found he was on his feet although he did not recall getting up.
“Not many, Dad. But there weren’t a lot of us at the beginning. “
He looked at his father. How could he have stood his war? Months in stinking, waterlogged trenches. Hundreds, thousands being killed in suicide charges over the top. The wire, the gas, the machine guns. It made capturing an Italian general seem simple.
His mother entered and stared at them. “Up to the table, Dad,” but she was watching her son.
“Mr. Mannering says that we should have taken the whole of Italy by now.” Allenby smiled at her. “Why don’t they send him? I’m sure he would frighten the Germans no end. He does me.”
His mother poured the tea and asked, “Met a nice girl yet, Dicky?”
“Yes. I have as a matter of fact.” It was only a part lie. He could see her right now. Her eyes and her dark hair, and her voice, he would never forget that.
He said, “She’s a Leading Wren.”
She looked at him searchingly. “Not an officer then?”
“No.”
His father took a piece of cake. Homemade. It would be, for his son’s return.
“What’s her name?”
“Joanna Hazel.” It slipped out just like that and he saw the sudden anxiety in his father’s eyes. His mother did not seem to have noticed. As she left the room saying, “Joanna? Nice name,” his father said, “The same as your chap who got killed. “
Allenby nodded. The room seemed to be closing in, stifling him.
“His sister.”
“What’s she like?”
Allenby described her as best he could, bringing the unknown girl into the room with its dusty blackout curtains and the ration books on the mantelpiece. He did not even realize his mother had returned with some more food on a dish.
His father said at length, “You must bring her home, if you can.”
Allenby looked at his plate. “If I can.” He stood up suddenly. “I must go upstairs.” He saw their expressions, concern and hurt. He tried again. “I’ll put my best uniform on.”
She smiled at him. “That’s better. But you must eat. You’re like a stick.”
As he closed the door behind him Allenby could feel the sweat on his forehead like ice.
He heard his father say in reply to something she said, “Leave it alone, Mother. Can’t you see? He’s been through hell. He’s been pushing himself into the flames ever since he joined up. No wonder he wants to dress all anyhow. To hold it at bay just a bit longer.”
Allenby returned to his room and stared out of the window. The darkness had closed in again. Seven days. He lowered the shutter across the window and then after a few moments sat on his bed and buried his face in his hands.
Frazer looked around the small but comfortable room which, like the old pub with its thatched roof, looked pleased with itself. He must remember to take a photo of the little pub, the King Charles Inn, for his mother. She’d like it.
It was the only available room and he knew why it was vacant. He must be directly over the main bar and he could hear the jangle of a piano, the roar of voices mingled in song, laughter and beer.
Frazer had begged several different lifts to reach here. Army lorries and once a staff car with a very senior Royal Marines officer who chatted to him about fishing and shooting grouse before he apologetically dropped Frazer while he turned farther south to Plymouth.
The last free ride was from a local doctor who asked him about the war. As the car tore along winding; narrow country lanes Frazer could understand how it must sometimes seem far away down here. Every town he had been driven through had been filled with uniforms-British, American and a lot from his own country. It made him feel uneasy to hear their familiar voices and accents, as if he was on the outsi
de.
The doctor had been the one to guide him to the King Charles Inn. Perhaps to make amends for his remark when he had first picked Frazer up.
“You an American?”
Frazer had grinned. The perfect way to make enemies. “Canadian.”
“Don’t often see officers thumbing a lift,” he had commented.
The woman on the desk had given him a map of the area. Frazer had thought about that. The place was already filled with troops, weapons and vehicles, exercising and preparing for the greatest invasion of all. He could have been an enemy spy for all anyone seemed to care.
He was wrong. A local policeman pedalled up to the inn on his tall bicycle and very politely asked to see Frazer’s identity card and leave pass. He managed to do it without causing offense, and to down a pint of cider at the same tine.
Frazer had, of course, been given the telephone number of the new HQ. Tomorrow he would try his luck and attempt to, speak to her. Why was he so unsure, so nervous? It was ridiculous, and he would probably make himself more so.
He took the framed picture of his mother and father out of his case and propped it on the bedside table. Then he thought of Allenby and wondered what the hell he was getting into. Then, with a brief glance at himself in the mirror, he picked up his cap and made his way towards the noise. He would take a walk before he turned in. Catch again some of those rich, country smells he had noticed when in the doctor’s car. The rain had stopped and he had enjoyed the feel of the land which seemed to have altered little for centuries.
But first a pint. He thrust his way through the khaki and RAF blue until he reached the bar.
A jovial man with a face like an apple beamed at him. “Yes, zur, what’ll it be?”
“Large Scotch and-” Frazer broke off and grinned awkwardly. “Sorry, I forgot. I’ll have a pint of that-” He pointed at a barrel behind the bar.
“Scrumpy,” said the landlord, apparently satisfied, like the policeman, that he was not a spy.
Frazer sipped it and wondered how many of these powerful local brews it would take to knock a man down.
He edged into a corner, away from the piano and two argumentative soldiers, and thought about tomorrow and how he might spend his leave. She would probably regret ever telephoning him at Gib. She had only done it because she had known what he was being ordered to do. No more than that. And in any case-he turned as someone dropped a glass on the stone floor, and saw her sitting on the opposite side of the bar in conversation with a young naval officer.
Even as he stared at her, caught entirely off balance, his carefully prepared speech blown to the winds, she looked up and saw him. As he pushed through the crowded figures he kept his gaze on hers. It was like an awareness, something that had been there for years when he knew it had not.
.He reached the table and the young officer, a RNVR sub-lieutenant, sprang to his feet. He was brand new, his uniform barely used. Frazer realized with a start that the subbie was staring at his sleeves. He was impressed, just as Frazer was still unused to his sudden promotion.
He said, “Hello, I was going to try and ring you tomorrow.”
She was still looking at him, as if she was searching for something.
“Now you don’t have to.” She patted a chair. “Join us.”
Frazer looked at the young sub-lieutenant. It must have ruined his evening.
She said quietly, and for an instant there was pain on her face, “Meet Alex.” She watched them shake hands. “My brother. “
12
BEGINNINGS
THE KING CHARLES INN seemed totally different in the daytime. The landlord had guided Frazer to a small, darkly paneled bar named the Snug. He obviously did not approve of officers sharing the place with other ranks. Frazer smiled and tried not to glance at his watch.
It was well past -noon, when she had said she would be here. Frazer had slept badly on his first night at the little thatched pub, and now as he tried to remember everything that they had said he began to wonder if he had heard only what he wanted, no, needed to hear.
Then she had left with her brother. Frazer thought that he was something like poor Ryder. It was to be hoped he lived a bit longer. Frazer put down his glass and looked out of the nearest window. How the weather could change. It was bright and clear, and the occasional passing serviceman or civilian gave off a cloud of breath in the crisp, cold air.
He had telephoned the new HQ and after identifying himself had explained where he would be staying for his leave. The voice at the other end had been polite. Disinterested.
The landlord glanced in at him. ” ‘Nother gin, zur?”
Frazer pushed the empty glass across. “Thanks.” The gin was about all the pub had apart from beer and scrumpy and rum. It reminded him of Goudie.
The landlord owned a large fat labrador called Hector who spent most of his time sprawled in front of the fire in the main bar. He seemed to manage to avoid being trodden on when the place was crowded and scrounged titbits of food whenever possible. He had been lying by the fire and as Frazer took his . drink he saw the old dog perk up and stare at the door, then very slowly begin to wag his tail.
The door opened and she stood framed against the washedout sky and a squad of bare trees.
She crossed to the Snug but paused to pat Hector’s head. The dog did not get up. He did not know her well enough yet it seemed. Her skin was glowing from the cold and she offered Frazer her hand in an almost formal handshake. Then she tossed her bag onto a chair and pulled a packet of cigarettes from her reefer jacket.
She looked at his glass. “I’ll have the same, if you were about to ask me.” She exhaled a stream of smoke and unwound very slowly. “Sorry I’m late. There’s a flap on. Usually is with the Boss away.” She eyed him gravely. “What sort of day are you having?”
Frazer said, “Went for a walk.” He hesitated. “You look marvellous. “
She showed neither surprise nor approval. “How’s your war going?”
Frazer sat back and watched her eyes. Blue like the sky. “It’s different. I’ve grown usd to seeing ships sink, to chasing Jerry submarines all over the ocean, only to find they’ve slipped past us and are mauling the convoy again.”
“That’s different?”
“You never see the enemy, you accept the losses of friends and ships. Now, I know-the enemy is real, human. Flesh and blood. “
Frazer changed the subject. “Alex is easy to talk to. How long has he been in the navy?”
She looked past him, her eyes troubled, like the previous night. “He left King Alfred six months ago. He did a bit of time in an escort destroyer, then he volunteered for Special Operations.” It sounded as if she had repeated it word for word to someone else, or to herself. “I blame myself. If I’d not been involved in Ops, if I’d been a quarters officer in some nice quiet Wrennery, it wouldn’t have happened.”
Frazer watched her, afraid to break the spell. That she would get up and leave.
“He doesn’t have much experience, that’s true.”
She looked at him. “He’s a bright lad. Speaks fluent German and French for one thing. Can’t you see how the minds of the top brass work?”
She glanced at her watch. It gave Frazer a few moments to study her, her hair, her small, well-shaped hands. He had to stop her leaving.
She said, “I shall have to dash in a moment. I’ll have another drink though.”
Frazer said, “I’d like to see you again, in fact-” “You’re on leave, I’m on duty around the clock getting my section organized. And even if I was free I’d-”
He put his hand on her sleeve, very gently, and could feel her tense, as if to pull away.
“I know that. But I want to see you. Very much. I’ve thought about you a lot.”
She watched his hand but did not draw away. “It’s not good to get too close. Not in wartime.”
Frazer said, “My mother always said that holiday romances never last. I expect she thinks that about the war too
.” He added suddenly, “Tell me about Paul.” He saw her flinch as if he had sworn at her. “If you like.”
“Who told you?” She shrugged. “No matter. I can guess.” Frazer felt that his grip on things was falling apart but he persisted. “How long had you known him?”
“Six weeks.” Her head dropped. “It may not sound much, but, you see, we-“
She broke off and stared at him angrily. “You wouldn’t understand! A few kisses and your North American charm and I’ll leap into bed with you, is that it?”
“You phoned me at Gib. “
“I was worried about you. Now you know why I want to keep Alex out of the dirty war. I don’t know what I’d do if anything happened to him.”
Frazer watched her as she glanced at herself in a gold compact and then reached for her bag. He had blown it. “Don’t leave like this, Lynn.” He saw her surprise at the use of her name. “And it’s not the way you said. After all, I may not have seen you, but I’ve known you for over six weeks. “
She regarded him thoughtfully, weighing his words or her own. “Well, so long as it’s understood-” She faltered. “I’m not sure.”
“You’ve been ill. They told me at Portsmouth.”
“Ill?” She turned as two army lieutenants clumped into the other bar, calling for drinks and laughing over some joke or other. The old dog did get up for them.
Then she said, “I suppose I was in a way.”
“Phone me in a day or so.” She stood up and straightened her tricorn hat. “But my advice is to go somewhere else to spend your leave.”
Frazer walked with her to the door. “I suppose. You never know when it may be the last one.”
She swung on him angrily, her eyes flashing. “Don’t ever say that! Not to me!”
She was oblivious to the landlord and the two soldiers who were staring at them transfixed.
Frazer said, “Paul was a lucky man.”
She recovered immediately. As if the use of her lover’s name was a talisman, something to hold on to.
“No. I was the lucky one.” She looked away to hide her face.
“And I’m sorry for what I said earlier. It’s not your fault.” Frazer said, “What about tomorrow, right here? Just for a few minutes if it’s all you can spare.”
The Volunteers Page 17
