by John Wilcox
‘What?’
He turned to her. ‘I’ve not been captured, of course, but I know blokes whose brothers were wounded and taken. They’ve written home to say how well they were looked after. We look after their wounded, too. This stuff is rubbish.’ He went on, suddenly animated. ‘You know, Pol, the Germans are good soldiers, very brave, but really just like us. They’re miserable and scared to death, just like us.’ Then he frowned. ‘Except those bastards … ah, sorry. The blokes who invented the gas and sent it over to us. They were a disgrace. A disgrace …’ His voice tailed away. ‘Sorry.’
Polly slowly nodded and pressed his arm tightly against her. ‘Don’t say sorry. You’ve got nothing to say sorry about. Come on. Let us have that glass of wine. And I will pay with my filthy earnings from the war. Come on, love. Don’t worry.’
They found a corner and were served glasses of a red wine that Jim had never heard of. ‘We get it cheaper over there,’ he said sheepishly. ‘Sorry.’
‘Stop saying sorry. It doesn’t matter. I can afford it now.’ He had not sought her hand but left his lying on the table. She reached across and enfolded it in both of hers. ‘Tell me about Bertie.’
He grinned. ‘I think he’s getting a bit fed up with the war and, like me, he got a whiff of the gas, but he’s all right really. Very popular with the blokes.’ He looked away shyly for a moment. ‘I said he’d sent his love. Well, he didn’t.’ Polly’s eyebrows rose. ‘No, he didn’t. Instead he asked me to tell you that he loves you more than ever. He gets a bit emotional, you know.’ He returned his gaze to her.
Polly thought that his brown eyes were the most beautiful she had ever seen in a man. She looked away and then up at him through her eyelashes. ‘You never get like that, do you? You never say things like that.’
Jim blushed. ‘Well, no. I’m, er, not quite … I get sort of, you know …’ He fixed his eyes fiercely on a port wine advertisement on the wall behind her head. ‘I get sort of embarrassed with that sort of stuff. Not like Bertie.’ Then he gripped her hand. ‘But I love your letters. Thank you for sending them.’
They sipped their wine in silence and Polly wondered anew about what on earth she could do with these two men. Looking at Jim now, the long, haggard face, the fine eyes set in those dark pits, she felt a stirring within her, an arousal that was new, in its way. She had always loved him, as she loved Bertie, but this was different, more carnal, and it was her turn to feel embarrassment.
She leant over and touched the ribbon on his chest. ‘Jim, you did so well to win your medal. We were all so proud of you – the whole street. Even Mr Jones, whose apples you used to pinch, said that you were always a fine lad, really.’
Jim grinned. ‘Good old Jonesey. I really didn’t do much to get the gong. Nothing out of the ordinary, really. No more than Bertie. But he’s so small they didn’t notice him. Come on. Let’s have another. My shout this time.’
In all, they drank four glasses of wine each and Polly felt distinctly cheerful and very, very affectionate as they walked arm in arm to catch their tram in Corporation Street. She snuggled up to him on the hard wooden bench.
‘How long have you got, Jim?’ she asked.
‘Fourteen days, but I’ve lost a day and half of that already, in the travelling.’
She made a sudden decision. ‘Look. Now don’t be shocked, but I have an idea.’ She giggled at the audacity of it. ‘I’m working long twelve-hour shifts at the moment, so we can’t see much of each other.’
Jim’s face fell.
‘No. That’s all right. You must spend time with your dear old mum and dad anyway – and I expect you want to call in at the jewellery works, eh?’
He nodded glumly.
‘But, look.’ Her voice dropped. ‘I’ve got some holiday owed to me. If they will let me off for three days or so in your second week – and I’ll create a hell of a row if they don’t – why don’t we go away together? Somewhere not far. Say Malvern or the Welsh hills. I’ve never been. What do you say, Corporal?’
Consternation sent his eyebrows shooting up. ‘What? Just the two of us? Away?’
She dug him in the ribs. ‘Absolutely right. Sort of … er … get to know each other, sort of thing. What do you say?’
‘But what will your mum and dad say – and what will mine?’
She sighed. ‘Well, now, Jim. You’re supposed to be a brave man. You’ve got a medal to prove it. I should think you could handle that, couldn’t you?’
‘You mean, just the two of us together?’
‘Golly, Jim. You’re quick. Yes. Just the two of us. Away. Together.’
A slow smile began to spread across his features. ‘Pol, you’re a card and no mistake.’ He spoke slowly now. ‘That … would … be … lovely.’
She snuggled up even more closely. ‘Now, we’ll have to plan it properly. We will say to our folks that it’s just a break for you, away from the front. Nothing improper about it. Separate rooms and all that. I’ll find somewhere nice for us to stay. I think Malvern would be good. It sounds nice and respectable and it would be lovely to walk on the hills there. Always wanted to go.’
Polly detected a sudden tension within him.
‘Ah yes, of course,’ he said. ‘Separate bedrooms. Yes, of course.’
She sighed again. ‘Jim, my love,’ she said softly. ‘We would say that but we wouldn’t bloody well do it. We would have one bedroom, see?’ And she looked up at him through her eyelashes again.
Slowly his face relaxed. ‘Yes, of course. Of course. I always knew that’s what you meant. Yes, right. Of course.’
The plan did not go through without some opposition. Wagstaffe immediately said that it would be impossible for her to have time off so soon. So she went to see Mr Miller, who smiled. ‘We can manage without you for three days, love,’ he said. ‘Go and see your chap.’
Her mother and father were undoubtedly shocked at the proposition. But she played the card that Jim, blasted for nine months by shot and shell, needed recuperation in the green countryside and that she was going to look after him. There would be nothing improper. He was, after all, Jim. If it had been another man, a new man, of course she would not have been able to get away with it. But Jim was her childhood friend. Her friend. A hero. He needed – he deserved – her help. So she was allowed to go.
Exactly a week after first proposing the trip, they booked into a little boarding house, high on the Malvern hills, with a view from the bedroom to the west that seemed to take in all of Wales. Without mentioning the matter to Jim, Polly had bought a cheap ‘gold’ wedding ring from Woolworths and, with a red face, Jim booked them in as Mr and Mrs Hickman. If their widowed landlady had doubts – they were, after all, ridiculously young – the medal ribbon on Hickman’s uniform quelled them.
In the bedroom, with its large, brass bedstead and giant, old-fashioned wardrobe, they awkwardly unpacked their respective cases and Jim hung away his uniform. Then, suddenly, he swung round and took her in his arms and kissed her.
‘About time,’ said Polly.
He hung his head. ‘Yes, well, you know … I always …’ His voice died away. Then he looked up at her. ‘Polly, have you ever … you know …?’
She gave a histrionic scowl. ‘Certainly not. What sort of girl do you think I am? More to the point, have you? Out there with all those French women, to be had, if what I hear in the factory is right, for about five francs a go? Well, James, have you?’
‘Of course not. Neither has Bertie.’
She winced. ‘Jim. Bertie has nothing to do with it for the next three days. Right?’ Her voice softened. ‘It’s just you and me, isn’t it?’ She kissed him gently. ‘While we are on the subject, my love, did you bring any thingumajigs?’
He nodded glumly. ‘Don’t know how to use the bloody things, though.’
‘Well, we will just have to learn, my hero, won’t we?’
They both laughed and he put his long arms around her and swirled her around the room until they b
oth fell on the bed, laughing.
They walked to the local pub that evening, a picture postcard inn with thatched roof and, although it was spring and comparatively warm, a blazing log fire. They drank the only bottle of wine the landlord had – ‘Don’t get much call for it round here, son’– and ate ham and eggs and fried potatoes. Then, hand in hand, they walked back to their cottage.
That night they made love. It didn’t begin well, in that Jim put on the condom before he was erect, so that the thing trailed like an old sock, reducing them both to helpless laughter. Then, inexpertly but tenderly and with increasing passion, they ‘got to know each other’, as Polly put it, and they lay in each other’s arms until first light, when they made love again. ‘It’s called “standing to” in the army,’ explained Jim and they laughed again. Old army habits died hard and Jim rose early and took some fresh air. Polly stayed in bed a little longer and, not for the first time, thought of Bertie …
The next two days were idyllic. They walked the hills of Malvern, those strange, green humps that stood up so unexpectedly from the plains of Worcestershire. They picnicked where Elgar had bicycled and they breathed in good air, so different from that of both Birmingham and the Ypres Salient. They made love in the afternoons on the grassy slopes and at night between the clean white sheets of the cottage. They exhausted the sparse supply of contraceptives that Jim had purchased but the nearest chemist was miles away and they didn’t care. It was a time of pure escapism for them both.
For Jim Hickman it was not reality. Reality was the trenches, discomfort, danger and death. The real life was the latrine trench, lice in his shirt seams, the dread of the trench mortar and the enemy: the Germans and Sergeant Black Jack Flanagan. A bountiful Providence – not the malicious being that orchestrated the hell of the Salient – had granted him these few days of paradise. They were certainly not real. Malvern was a magical land where his love was consummated every day and he could breathe deeply and freely. He didn’t understand it but nor did he want to examine it too closely in case it just disappeared. Malvern was Polly.
Polly Johnson shared much of this feeling of magical escape. Once, as a little girl, her parents had taken her on a week’s summer holiday to Abersoch in North Wales, where she had played on the sands and paddled in the sea. But otherwise, she had never left Birmingham, except for the occasional excursion to the brown, trodden paths of the old landmark Barr Beacon, which could be glimpsed from Whitehead Road, round the corner from their house. Malvern, then, was a rural surprise, with views that contained not one factory nor tall chimney stack and where the air on the top of the hills stimulated her whole being. As did Jim. Jim! She had become a woman with him and her fulfilment made her body tingle. And yet. And yet … By giving herself to him, had she made a commitment that could not be escaped? Did she want to escape?
By the third day, when they silently packed their bags, thanked their landlady and made their way to the little country station, Polly realised that her impulsive decision to emancipate them both had not broken the bonds that tied her, not only to Jim but to Bertie also. Jim, Bertie and Polly. They were still together. She loved Jim and their few days à deux had strengthened her love. But not, she realised, half sadly, to the exclusion of Bertie. He remained as much a part of her as did Jim, her first lover. How, oh how, was she going to resolve this dilemma? And had their idyll changed Jim, who had always seemed so happily acquiescent in the triangular relationship?
The answer came when they arrived back in Birmingham, the day before Jim was due to return to the trenches.
He suggested that, before going home, they should take a glass of wine – their other new passion – in Yates’s Wine Lodge. They found the table they had first occupied on his arrival and, after the first sip of wine, Jim fumbled in his pocket.
‘I’ve got something for you,’ he said. He produced a scrap of tissue paper, inside of which was a small lump of plasticine. Embedded in the clay sat a small diamond. It sparkled and dazzled in the dim light.
‘You mentioned that I should go to my old workplace.’ He spoke shyly again, as though they had never been intimate. ‘Well, I did. I went last week. But not to see my old mates, but to buy this.’ He carefully lifted it from its bed and picked away fragments of the clay with his thumb. ‘It’s not mounted, of course, Pol, but I can do that on my next leave.’ He spoke hurriedly now, as though anxious to make a sale. ‘I’ll find a good gold ring and you can choose a mounting for it: platinum, plain gold or whatever. I can do it for you. Look.’ He held it up and rotated it. ‘See how it reflects the light.’ He handed it to her.
Polly realised that her jaw had sagged. She gulped and took the stone and put it into the palm of her hand, where it sat, like a reproach. ‘Oh Jim. I don’t know what to say. It’s lovely. It’s … it’s …’ She sought for words, something, anything that would buy her time to think. ‘It must have cost a fortune. How could you afford this on army pay?’
He gave a slightly embarrassed grin. ‘Oh, I’ve got savings. And I got it at trade price, of course.’ He hurried on quickly. ‘It’ll look better when it’s mounted and on the ring, of course.’ He paused and the shyness came back. ‘When it’s finished, it’ll be an engagement ring, Pol.’
She looked at him, still thinking quickly, still at this last minute trying to make up her mind. But she could not resist one last, gentle push. ‘So, Jim …?’
He looked over her shoulder again. ‘Er … um … well … Pol …’ Then it came out in a gush. ‘Pol, I love you and I want us to get married. Particularly after these last few days. It was, well, all so lovely. I know you’re fond of Bertie, Pol, but I would make you happy. Honest I would. When the war’s over I would have a good job and, and …’ He tailed away. ‘I thought you’d say yes, Pol. Particularly, after … you know.’
She felt the tears rush to her eyes. She seized his hand. ‘Oh, I do love you, Jim. And what happened during the last three days was wonderful but it made no difference. I always loved you. But …’ She paused and saw the look of desperation come into his eyes as she hesitated, and she tightened her grip on his hand. ‘I don’t think I want to get married yet. We are both only nineteen and this blasted war is making such a change to all our lives.’ She picked up the diamond and put it to her lips. ‘This is lovely and I love you ever so much, Jim, I really do. You know I have never been with another man …’
Jim looked up quickly. ‘Bertie?’ he asked.
Polly sighed. ‘No. Not even Bertie. You are the first. But, Jim, I have to be honest. I am in a mess. You see, I love you both, you and Bertie. I really do. I wish there was a way in which we could all live together. I know that that’s impossible, so I think time is the answer. I really don’t want pressure being put on me.’
They sat in silence and the chatter in the crowded bar somehow seemed to lessen, as though the other customers were looking on, listening in sympathy. Slowly, Jim reached out and took back the diamond. ‘I didn’t want to put pressure on you, Pol,’ he said. But his voice was dull and his eyes heavy.
‘Oh, Jim.’ Now the tears began to trickle down her cheeks. ‘I gave myself to you – I suggested we should go away – because I wanted to show you that I loved you … that … that there was love for you in the middle of this terrible war. Now I have hurt you. I don’t want you to be hurt.’
A new certainty came to her. ‘Look. Will you let me keep the diamond? You will not make it up into a ring and I will not wear it, nor show it to anyone. So we will not be officially engaged.’ Her voiced faltered for a moment. ‘If … if you do meet someone … someone else … then of course you must have it back. But I shall treasure it and, when things have sorted themselves out, I will tell you and then,’ she gave his hand another squeeze, ‘I will be the happiest girl in the whole world.’
He gave a wry grin. ‘And what about Bertie?’
She held his gaze. ‘I cannot promise you that I will stop loving Bertie but I can tell you that I know I will always love you. Tim
e, Jim. Give us all time, my love. Won’t you?’
He looked at her steadily, noting the way a long lock of hair had escaped from its pins under her workaday hat and was straggling in a soft wave to her shoulders; the way her green eyes were wide and pleading and the freckles on her high cheekbones were gleaming under the tears. He remembered the hair curling across her white shoulders as she lay back on the pillow. He gulped.
‘Of course I will.’ He carefully placed the diamond in its waxen cushion, wrapped the tissue paper around it and slipped a rubber band three times around the little package. Then he handed it to her. ‘Take care of it, Pol,’ he smiled. ‘It was bloody expensive. All of half a crown.’
Then he grew serious. ‘If something happens to me, then take it to the works and get it made up how you want it – brooch, pendant, ring, whatever, and wear it, please. I shall leave some money there so it won’t cost you anything. They will understand.’
Too full of tears to speak, Polly nodded and placed the package carefully in her handbag.
Long before Polly had left for work the next morning, Jim Hickman had left the house next door and, that evening, he was back with his battalion in France.
That same day, in May 1915, a minister in the House of Commons answered a question from a pacifist member by denying that any sentence of death had been carried out in France on any member of His Majesty’s forces. He was lying, for records later revealed that, up until that time in 1915, twenty men had been shot at Le Havre rest camp for cowardice or desertion.
CHAPTER SIX
Jim returned to find his battalion in the middle of the line – a new line that had been established after fierce fighting in what had become the Second Battle of Ypres. The Germans had attacked with forty-two battalions, forcing the Allies to retreat, trench by trench, step by step, until the line now bulged scarcely two miles east of Ypres at its furthest point from the ruined town. In the first five weeks after that first gas attack, 60,000 men had been killed, wounded or were missing. Now, there was to be no more retreating.
