“A what?” From Johnny.
“You sit around and talk with spirits.” From Frenchy.
“Sure. Why not? Where’s it?” Eager.
“Come with me, then,” said the stranger. We followed him down the road a few hundred yards to a tobacconist’s shop. Next to the shop a narrow staircase led upstairs to an apartment. He knocked on the door and it was opened by an elderly woman as gray as himself. He whispered to her and called us in. About four other people were in the room, one a heavily built, pleasant-looking girl. About eighteen, I guessed. Everybody exchanged names then we all had a cup of tea while we, the newcomers, were briefed on procedure. After the tea things were cleared away we took our places around a large table, each one holding a hand of his neighbor palm down on the table. Frenchy and I sat on either side of the girl. Press gently on the table and concentrate, the gray man had said. I caught Frenchy’s eye. Yes, I was pressing gently on the table, on the girl’s left hand, slyly massaging the palm with my fingers, feeling the soft dampness. Now and again there would be a convulsive shudder as she tried to pull her hand away. I wondered if Frenchy was doing the same thing. A quick look showed she was red in the face. Everybody else concentrating, eyes half-closed. Johnny sandwiched between two huge blonde women, his hands lost beneath theirs. One of them breathing audibly, the perspiration in bright droplets on her forehead and face. Concentration.
The girl was quietly pulling to extricate her hand. I leaned near and whispered, “Don’t. You’ll break the circle.”
“Quiet,” from the gray man.
Without warning the girl exploded in laughter, snatching her hands away to cover her face. All the eyes popped open.
“Get out,” the gray man said. Meaning the three of us.
“You coming, too?” Frenchy asked the girl.
“Leave her alone.” The gray man shouted. We left. Lincoln on a Sunday afternoon.
Life was good. The studies. The games. The flying. Especially the flying. At long last up there. Dual controls, but feeling the plane respond to stick and rudder bars. Stomach displaced as the instructor made climbs and tight turns, but holding it in. Learning. Living for the day until it arrived. First solo flight. Taking her up, up. Alone. Free. Like a king. Hardly heeding the tinny voice of ground control in the earphones. Bringing her in for the first time. Alone. A little bumpy but thumbs up from the instructor. Flying. Flying. Map reading. Flying. A little farther afield each time. Working to the flight plan. Ground speed. Wind direction and velocity. Air speed. E.T.A. Living flying. Eating flying. Eyes fixed on a distant blue horizon.
Graduation. Passing-out parade. Wings and the posting to Operational Flying Training. Flying and more flying. More speed. A little aerobatics thrown in. Alive. Invincible. Finally the posting to a squadron. Leaving the old friends. Making the acquaintance of a new and constant companion. Fear. That little gremlin who rode unseen in the narrow cockpit. Who ever said that fighter planes were built for one?
Was the R.A.F. integrated? For me, in those days of training and operational flying, the question did not arise. I was at one with everything. A part of everything. Black and different as blonde was different from red. The color of my skin was no weight on my shoulders. I was proud in my skin, not defensive of it. There was a war on and I was a warrior. War drew the people together. Rich and poor. Educated and ignorant. High and low. Color? It seemed to give an extra dimension to me. White rankers saluted. White civilians were very friendly. Here and there the nasty quip about blackies, especially when I was escort to an attractive woman. I ignored those quips, savoring the jealousy implied. They must wish they were me. With the woman. Or wearing the wings. Especially the wings.
One night in 1942, hundreds of us, service personnel and civilians herded together in the Underground at Piccadilly while German bombers raided overhead. Air-raid wardens directing, pleading, cajoling the crowds into some semblance of order along the narrow concrete platforms beside the shiny steel rails, temporarily de-electrified, yet menacing. Lying or sitting wherever space allowed. Faces barely discernible in the dim light. Impromptu singsongs and bawdy jokes failing to mask the worry and fear or the faint repetitive shocks as bomb after bomb exploded far overhead. The thick concrete wall cold against our backs. Huddled so close together, conversation was inevitable. The one on my left a civilian. A woman.
“Hello.”
“Hello.” Another, a man, leaning forward around her to declare his presence.
“Jim. My husband.” The woman said. “James Proudy. I’m Betty.”
“Glad to meet you. Mr. Proudy, Mrs. Proudy. My name’s Braithwaite.”
No handshakes. No need, pressed together as we were. An air-raid warden balancing himself on the very edge of the platform, begging everyone to move farther along to make room for others.
“Stationed near by?” asked Betty.
“Not very far. Hornchurch. Came up to see a film. Just got here when the sirens started.”
“We were on our way home on the bus when the sirens went. The air-raid wardens stopped the bus and made us come down here. This could go on for hours, don’t you think?” The anxiety thick in her soft voice. About thirty or thereabouts, at a rough guess, the Midlands accent very pleasurable. Hair could be any color in that poor light. Not much clearly noticeable about any of us. Service uniforms or drab civilian clothes. Pale faces.
“Been in long?” from Betty. “The R.A.F., I mean.”
“Eighteen months. Feels like forever.”
“Volunteered for that lot, I did,” Jim said, leaning forward, his face angled towards me, “but they turned me down, ’cause of me ticker. Well, guess we can’t all be ruddy heroes, eh, mate?”
“Don’t know about the heroes bit,” I replied.
“I keep telling him everybody can’t be in uniform,” Betty said. “Anyway, what he’s doing is just as important to the war effort.” Pride in her voice.
“What’s that, Mr. Proudy?”
“Sorry, mate. Mustn’t talk about it. Never know who’s listening, do we?” Laughing with it.
“Anyway, I always say thank God for you boys,” Betty added glancing at me.
You boys. The blue uniform and the wings and the men who wore them. Together. Inclusive. Integrated? Perhaps not in the limited terms of today’s meaning of the word. Black and white. More. Much more. At the airport there was the general camaraderie, the particular friendships, the occasional dislikes and irritations of men with men, but all peripheral to the special squadron unity, each appreciating his dependence on the others, his need of the others. Brotherhood. Away from the station civilians saw the uniform and the wings and respected the men who wore them, seizing each opportunity to express that respect directly. Perhaps subliminally they felt the brotherhood. The black ones merely a part of the whole, even if they added an exotic touch to the uniform and the wings. Made to feel welcome, into pubs, into clubs, into houses and into hearts. Invited to participate, to share even the minimal allowances of food which underlined the civilian contribution to the promised blood, sweat and tears.
Christmas Eve, 1942, and those of the squadron within easy reach of home and family already dispersed for two or three days of welcome respite. Subject to immediate recall. For the rest of us the prospect of ample Christmas fare and the improbable pleasure of our own unavoidable company. Later that day I saw the hastily typed sheet on the notice board, bearing names and addresses of local residents offering an open invitation to any airman remaining on the station to share their Christmas lunch.
I picked their name at random, perhaps because I liked the simple sound of it; perhaps because their address was within easy-walking reach of the airport. If things became dreary I could easily excuse myself and return to the station. After all, one could always amuse oneself there with dancing, the station cinema or the ubiquitous poker “school.”
On the way there I wondered about
them. Why were they doing this? Perhaps no children, so this was one way of doing the extra bit. Perhaps a son or sons in the services far away from home. Prisoners of war. Or dead. There had to be a reason. How would they react to seeing me? Well, Christmas was always full of surprises, so I might well be theirs.
Just to keep things balanced I bought some stuff in the N.A.A.F.I. canteen, things which were in very short supply for civilians because of rationing. A pound of ham, nuts, tea, chocolate. Made a Christmas package complete with seasonal wrapping paper.
The house was an attractive cottage in a quiet side street in Brentwood. Privet hedge still darkly green adding a touch of privacy. Rosebeds centered in a small lawn in front of the house, the thorn darkly threatening even with nothing to protect. They were both at the door to welcome me before I could touch the doorbell. Must have noticed my approach. He tall, gray-haired and stockily strong. She not much shorter, buxom and brown-haired. Smiling their welcome and their protest over the parcel.
This was new for me. Different from going to the flat of a popsy one met at station “hop” or picked up at the cinema, the Masonic dance hall or a local pub. This was formal, or nearly so. No, Mrs. Rowlands. Yes, Mr. Rowlands. Even leaving out the name didn’t help much. They struggled awhile with Flying Officer Braithwaite, until Mrs. Rowlands protested and asked, “What’s your first name?”
“My friends call me Rick.”
“May we?”
“Of course.”
“All right, Rick. Now you must call us Elsie and Dan.”
I tried but couldn’t do it. Those gray hairs, I suppose. So I did my best to avoid using any name. Over lunch we talked, but it wasn’t easy. I did most of the talking, responding to their questions about the country of my birth, the people, the climate, the politics, the products. Everything. Then about me. My parents. My boyhood. My schooldays. My reasons for coming to England. My studies. On and on. So busy fielding the questions that most of the food remained untouched. Mrs. Rowlands noticed this and read it the wrong way.
“Sorry about the meal. I had no idea what kind of things you eat.”
That killed what little appetite remained. I’d wait just long enough to allow for courteous retreat then get the hell out of there. Perhaps they imagined I feasted on raw missionaries or something.
“Anything else I can get you? Some eggs? Ham? Anything?”
I assured her that I was fine and I never ate much anyway. No dessert. Coffee was okay.
After lunch we sat before a roaring coal fire in their living room and talked some more. Me with my eye on my watch. More questions.
“You speak excellent English, Rick,” Mr. Rowlands said. “Where did you learn it? What’s the native language of British Guiana?”
“English,” I answered, somewhat shortly, furious with myself for having misjudged the notice on the board. These people had really invited a white airman. They’d expected someone like themselves. All this rubbish about special food and native language as if they supposed I’d just fallen out of the trees. The irritation was growing in me, pulling me away from them.
Perhaps Mrs. Rowlands sensed my mood. She suddenly switched the talk to themselves. They wished their own sons were alive today to help in the defense of England, but the twins had been stillborn two years after marriage. No other children. Mr. Rowlands was an engineering draftsman now on special assignment with one of the ministries. Too old for active service. Three nights each week both of them served as local air-raid wardens. Without a break in the recital she said, “Dan, why don’t you take Rick to the basement and show him your models?” Then to me, “They’re really lovely.”
I made sounds about the time and needing to catch a bus back to the airport, but she insisted there would be others and he led me off. The entire floor space of the basement was arranged as a workshop, the wall nearly covered with racks of shiny tools. Close together in the center of the floor were a power lathe and workbench. Elevated to the height of the workbench and following the perimeter of the room were twin tracks for a miniature railway system, complete with signal boxes and switch gear, all controlled electrically from a panel on the workbench. The models which all worked were scale replicas of past and contemporary steam engines. They were lined up neatly on the workbench.
He had made them all. Everything except the wheels which he bought from a dealer in model parts. They were more than toys. With them he tested various theories he had on compression ratios and interactive levers, occasionally making alterations to the combustion system to achieve better results. Absolutely fascinating. We played around with the trains until Mrs. Rowlands called us up to tea. I’d forgotten about leaving. He invited me to come over any time to help him with his experiments. Said the advice of a physicist was just what he needed.
Over tea some more talk but this time about general topics. Churchill. Rationing. The best time of year for planting in the kitchen garden. When I got up to leave they extracted from me a promise to visit them again. Soon. Next Sunday.
Back at the station I thought about it and was not sure that I wanted to see them again. Well, not just see them, but spend all that time with them. Difference in age or something. And all those questions which made me acutely aware of the difference between them and me. Black and White. On the camp I was just me. At least nobody asked me any crappy questions. I ate what everyone else ate or I’d go hungry. Christ, over lunch when Mrs. Rowlands asked, “Do you feel the cold much? I mean, does it bother you?” I felt like answering, “About as much as it bothers you.” But I couldn’t be rude to her in her own home. Hell, I wasn’t complaining about anything. Snow or sun. Why couldn’t they just accept that I’d feel like them, eat like them, behave like them?
Several times during that week I thought of phoning them with an excuse and each time postponed it, arguing with myself that they were charming people and I was perhaps making too much of questions simply asked without ill intent. Then Sunday arrived. Too late for excuses. So I was there again. Me and another N.A.A.F.I. parcel. This time it was better. Easier. After lunch we went walking through the woods on the edge of town, the leaf-laden ground soft from recent rain and frost. Overhead there was the occasional rumble of aircraft. Their home was in direct line with the flare path of the main runway. Yes, this time it was better and they were great company. We talked about books, the theatre, about what would happen after the war. I told of my intention to return to University to complete my studies. The things I would do afterwards. Experimental research. The time passed. Quickly. Again the promise to visit them. This time flying duties prevented me. For three weeks. The end of the second week Mrs. Rowlands telephoned. Saturday evening. The first telephone call I’d had since joining the squadron. They wanted to know if I was all right and when would they see me. I explained that my duties were temporarily changed and I would be in touch with them as soon as it was convenient. The middle of the next week I received a letter from them. Just a short note saying they hoped all was well with me and remembered me in their prayers. Come and visit us soon.
So it was. Bit by bit we were drawn together. At least once each week I’d spend an afternoon or evening with them. Sometimes helping Mrs. Rowlands in the garden, but mostly with her husband and his experiments. Eventually they asked me to let them stand in for my mother and dead father. Just for the duration, they said. It wasn’t easy, even though by that time I was aware of their kindly interest and responded to it. How could I call a white woman “Mother”? Once again she solved the problem. I noticed that they began addressing each other as Mum and Dad, instead of Elsie and Dan. Without thinking about it I was soon doing the same thing. They suggested that I bring some of my friends over, and occasionally there’d be several of us sprawled on the living-room floor or in the basement with Dad. Fellows and Waafs. Mum would make them welcome but would leave no doubt that I was special. For my part, it was wonderful to know that there were those two who cared abou
t me, even worried about me. I was no longer alone in England. I grew to love them dearly and their own love comforted and supported me and survived the most exorbitant demands which, in time, I unwillingly and helplessly made upon it.
Integrated? The word had no relevance to that time and those circumstances. In the face of the very real threat of a German invasion hands were linked in a common effort and the color of the hands was unimportant. As I had been a student happily pursuing my studies without concern about my color, so I became an airman. Period.
The train drew away from the station.
“How long were you in?” my neighbor asked.
“Pardon?” Pulled back to the present, beside him.
“The air force. How long did you serve?”
“Five years.”
“Then you began writing?”
“No. I returned to University.”
“I’d thought of doing just that,” he said, “but before my separation from the Air Force I made a few contacts back in the States and got an offer of a job. I often wonder what life would have been like if I’d gone back to law school. How did it go for you? Were you able to adjust easily?”
“I managed.” Leaving it there. Courtesy did not require that I unravel my life for his inspection.
Adjusting had not been easy, but it was rough for all of us. All those who had skipped part of their youth for the cruder activities of killing and being killed. Now we were back. Divested of the uniform and the medals and the wings, we were ordinary, inglorious and even a little out of place among the new crop of undergraduates. Older. Wiser, perhaps. Impatient with their posturings. Intolerant, and a bit jealous of their flaunted youth. To them, we had so quickly become obsolete. Already they were moving towards a new age of aircraft design and jet propulsion.
It was extremely difficult to switch from the fear and excitement of living in the shadow of death to the prosaic but far more demanding world of lectures and books and study assignments. Especially in those first days and weeks after demobilization when the euphoria from routine and control gradually gave way to an acute feeling of dislocation and loss. So very often I thought of chucking it and trying for a job with my bachelor’s degree, but Mum and Dad would provide a patient, restraining influence. They’d remind me of my mother’s faith and her high hopes for me. Their own persistent enthusiasm was a gentle but forceful prod against my own doubts and indecisions, Dad arguing and persuading, assuring me of my ability. Telling me I had a special talent and it would be criminal waste to neglect it. Sounding so much like my schoolmaster, way back in the early boyhood days of British Guiana.
Reluctant Neighbors Page 3
