by Leah Fleming
‘Look at all them spices . . . won’t Mrs Morton get a surprise. Ginger powder, cinnamon sticks and allspice. Look, real black peppercorns. Just what she needs for her Victory Pie.’
‘I think it’s a waste of good food and effort,’ snorts the Manageress.
‘You would,’ giggle Wyn and Dorrie to themselves, as they polish the table tops into waxy mirrors.
‘I hear your Sol’s on his way home from sea,’ says Wyn, making no secret of her interest in the photo in Dorrie’s purse.
‘Tonight if they dock on time. I can’t wait to see him. It’s been two years.’
‘I bet he’s changed a lot.’
‘We’ve all had to change, haven’t we?’ Dorrie answers, making faces at her reflection on the glossy table.
‘Your dad never changes, does he?’
‘That’s because he’s preserved in religion,’ laughs Dorrie. ‘Like pickled onions sealed in a jar!’
‘You do say some queer things, Dorrie Goodman. How’s it going with lover boy?’
‘Okay.’
‘Only Okay? Have you done anything you shouldn’t yet?’
‘Mind your own business, Wynfred Preece,’ blushes Dorrie.
‘You will tell me what it’s like, if you do. I’m dying to know.’
‘My lips are sealed.’
‘Are you preserved in religion, as well?’ Wyn retorts.
‘You must be joking. Two jars of pickled preserves in our house is quite sufficient, thank you.’
Everyone is in a good mood for once, now that Sol is on his way home for a week of precious leave. Mother hums choruses as she sifts the grey gritty National flour through her fingers: ‘Will your anchor hold in the storms of life.’
Tonight the parlour fire blazes in honour of his return. The table is festooned with the whitest starched cloth, with embroidered corners covered in gaudy pink and purple hollyhocks. The last of the pre-war salmon, hoarded so carefully for just such an occasion, has been opened, mashed with vinegar and margarine, to eke out the sandwiches and cold meat platter alongside Dorrie’s favourite summer pudding.
Solomon has served on escort vessels in the Atlantic for three years; a dangerous mission. Torpedoed once, but saved by swimming to some wreckage and picked up promptly. He had been working deep in the engine room but had been sent up on deck, at the far end from the explosion, a lucky escape, which Alice Goodman puts down to all her praying. Now all her kneeling has another reward.
Dorrie tweaks the curtains anxiously. ‘Can I go and meet the train?’
‘Your Father is quite capable of doing that. You keep at your piano practice. Give Sol some idea of your progress. You know there’s an exam coming up. Miss Fenwick says you’re getting a bit slapdash these days. She keeps asking me if I am recovered and said something about you having to finish early on Tuesdays. That’s news to me, I told her. The Goodmans are all blessed with the best of health. A tranquil mind gives life to the flesh, only “Passion makes the bones rot”, I reminded her.’
Dorrie feels the heat of her guilt rising in her cheeks but bluffs away the accusation. ‘Oh, Miss Fenwick’s always getting me muddled with Vera Hill. Her father’s very sick.’ No one suspects that Lucky sneaks under the camp fence and meets her each Tuesday beneath the railway arch, walking her as far as is safe. The lies burn her throat. ‘I hear Pastor Gillibrand has invited the Gospelairs from the Base to sing on Sunday night. Sol will enjoy it if I sing alongside them in the choir. I can’t wait to see his face . . . do you think I’ve grown?’
‘Don’t fuss so about your appearance. Handsome is as handsome does, Dorcas. Go on and do your practice.’
For once, her restless fingers find solace in tearing up and down the keyboard. Sol, her big brother, is her only ally in this dreary household. He will cheer her up with tall tales. She will be allowed out with him to chaperon her.
Wyn will make some excuse to call in. Wyn fancies the tall lanky seaman, says he looks just like Robert Donat in the ‘Thirty Nine Steps’. It is very late when she hears the door opening and the noise of voices in the hallway. The trains are a law unto themselves and Sol’s arrival is several hours later than expected. She waits for her parents to see him alone for a few seconds, hanging back to let them savour his company. Sol will soon seek her out. The door opens, she flings her arms blindly around him.
‘Oh Sol . . . Thank God. It’s so lovely to have you home.’ She buries herself in his uniform, sniffing the stale tobacco smoke, the sweaty aroma of a tired seafarer.
‘Well, sis, let me see, quite the young lady.’
She twirls around for him to admire the view. ‘How was your journey?’
‘Terrible . . . the train time forgot. We were stuck in a siding for an hour, cramped up like sardines while an air raid nearly severed the track. We all just had to sit it out, poor Yanks from the Heath, stuck there so long, ruined their evening too. Hope you don’t mind, this poor guy had been on leave in London, missed all his connections, so I’ve brought him home for the night or at least ’til he can pick up a liberty truck back to Base.’
‘Oh, Sol, I wanted to see you by yourself. Trust you to pick up some stranger, typical!’
‘Not exactly . . . he says he knows you from the café. Nice friendly guy, just your sort. We thought you’d like a little excitement. He’s talking round father. Here, see, let me introduce you to . . .’
Dorrie nearly faints at the sight of the smiling man filling the door frame.
‘H’ya, Miss Goodman. I told yer brother, we’re old sparring partners.’ There stands Burgess McCoy, grinning triumphantly, stalking through her cottage like a smiling tiger. Dorrie steps back weakly.
‘Hello, Mr McCoy,’ she replies coldly. ‘My brother seems to think he owes you hospitality. I would have thought the buses are still running to the Heath. It’s only a three mile walk.’
‘See what I mean? Such a spark in your sister. When I finds out Solly boy is your big brother . . . why, I told him how obliging you were – what a little songbird.’ The coded message is clear. You treat me well or I spill the beans. They sit at the table stiffly, while Father says his favourite Grace for visitors. An aching disappointment seeps through her limbs. This was to be Sol’s special night; not shared with a bully like McCoy.
‘Dorrie eat up, you’re wasting good food,’ says Mother.
‘I’m not very hungry.’ Dorrie sulks, her head bowed so as not to catch the Yank’s piercing eyes.
‘It seems my daughter has lost her manners. She’s still a silly girl at times. Sergeant Burgess is from Atlanta, Georgia. He attends the Southern Baptist Church and is in fellowship with all Bible based churches.’
‘Is that a church extended to all believers, Mr McCoy?’ Dorrie cannot resist the challenge.
‘It sure is. We believe in salvation by the blood of the Lamb – the wages of sin is death and the damned are redeemed through the blood of Jesus alone. There is no salvation any other way.’
‘Alleluia!’ Joby Goodman echoes. ‘Praise the Lord! It is our honour to share our table with a companion of the Lord. We hope you’ll visit our service on Sunday at the Gospel Hall. Come and tell the folks round here all about Christian Witness in Atlanta.’
‘In Christ there’s no slave or free, male or female, is that so Mr McCoy?’
‘Why yes, so the Bible says.’
‘That’s hardly what I hear about the way they treat slaves in the south!’
‘There ain’t no slaves, missy.’ His voice hardens. ‘The nigras worship in their own churches as they wish.’
‘Please forgive my daughter. She has forgotten herself. Dorcas, apologise to the Sergeant, he is a guest in our house.’
‘Your daughter is entitled to her opinion. She can’t understand our ways. I would be honoured to instruct her further, so that she can look kindly on this simple soul. She sure has a temper with that hair. I think we can come to some understanding, little lady, can’t we?’ The threat now barely concealed.
She feels his knee push hard onto her thigh under the table and shoots up from her seat. ‘I don’t feel well. Please excuse me.’ She rushes upstairs, flinging herself onto the bed in tears.
Later comes a tap tap, as Sol peers anxiously round the door. ‘Dorrie, what’s up? It’s not like you to be so rude!’
‘Oh Sol, Burgess McCoy’s an awful man. He’s been watching me, you know how some Yanks can pester a girl. I don’t like him, Sol. He makes my skin crawl with ants. Get rid of him, please, I’m not coming down again, no matter how hard Father belts me.’
‘Is he at it again, love? You’ll get no beating while I’m in the house, I promise. I’m sorry, kiddo. What’s this guy done to you, to upset you so? He was so chummy on the train.’
‘He only used you to get in here, to butter up Father with his phoney preacher stuff. I don’t trust him. He treats the coloured soldiers badly . . . Curtis Jackson, that’s Maggie Preece’s friend from the Base, doesn’t trust him either. He warned me against crossing him.’
‘These bleedin’ Yanks don’t own the place,’ Sol snaps. ‘Don’t worry, sis, I’ll sort is out, sorry I started all this, sorry, love.’
‘You weren’t to know. He can be very cunning. Just get rid of him. Don’t let him stay in the house tonight.’
‘Don’t you worry, I’ll take him out for a drink, out of harm’s way.’
No one knows how or where the battle of Lichfield begins that weekend but it spreads street by street, skirmish by skirmish, throughout the public bars. From the Turk’s Head to the Scales . . . through to the Earl of Lichfield and into the Goat’s Head and the Talbot, the Dirty Duck, the Queen’s Arms. Flames, fanned by rumours that a local girl has been insulted, raped, forced at knife point, murdered by one, two, three gangs of Yankee thugs and now lies at death’s door in the Cottage Hospital.
A bunch of Polish pilots, grounded in the city, thick fog on the airfield having cancelled all flights, whoop and wail like banshees, crashing chairs, bottles – in a saloon brawl fit to be dished up in a western. Suddenly the streets are cleared of any Yankee uniforms by Military Police.
The police are baffled. Not a single complaint has been received that night. Nothing occurs to warrant such an explosion of indignation. The arrested are slung in the lockups in the Guild Hall and allowed out later, with a caution. From her vantage point in the attic window, the Prin sees all: how Yankee snowdrops barricade themselves like a wagon train under attack from Indian hordes; how Solomon Goodman slugs it out with that nasty sandy-haired sergeant, who holds his groin from the blows. ‘You call my sister a whore once more and I’ll see you in Hell, you hypocrite.’
‘Zat big brother of you, he shout and kick him in balls. Such excitement I no see, since the crowds storm ballet to see Nijinsky wizout ze tickets.’
Next morning the publicans mop the blood, repair the damage, sweep up the smashed glass and count their takings. Fighting is thirsty work and the barrels of weak wartime beer are well and truly drained to the dregs. Dorrie keeps out of sight, dodging her parents’ questions about Sol’s black eye, refusing to explain the sudden departure of Sergeant McCoy back to barracks.
Lucky and Co were confined to barracks during the riots but jungle drums beat wildly about the affray. Dorrie edits her account carefully but the young soldier warns, ‘One night McCoy’ll find himself outnumbered in a dark alley.’
‘He’s not worth it, Lucky. Please forget it. It’ll only draw attention to us. He’ll get you a posting to another camp, if he can. I couldn’t bear that.’
‘But it ain’t fair, Dorrie.’
‘None of this is fair . . . all this hiding. My father would kill me if he knew I was dating a soldier. He’s got strange ideas. He’d follow me, and spoil it all.’
‘McCoy is real mean. He’s got some deals going on. Who hasn’t on this goddam base? Curt Jackson’s okay, fair enough, but one M.P. watching the other M.P. What a way to win a war.’
‘The day of judgement is upon us!’ yells Belle to her staff. ‘We’ve got a date for the Victory Pie Competition. Here, soak these beans. I’m going to turn them into a Bean Bake with belly pork, mustard and molasses and some herbs, if I can find any fresh ones.’
The red, white and blue theme causes them all a problem, as they piece together old bunting and flags to make a patriotic display. Marlene Preece’s paint box is stripped bare of all the carmine and Prussian blue to make flag labels, illustrating national dishes. No detail is too much effort. Judging will soon commence and the awards will be announced at the next National Savings Parade.
‘We’re not doing tomato soup. It’s too predictable. I’ve still got some beetroot stored in sand. We are going to have Bortsch.’
‘What’s that then?’ demanded Connie.
‘Beetroot soup.’
‘More foreign muck,’ she sighs. ‘What’s wrong with calling it what it is, beetroot soup?’
‘Because it sounds better and is more complicated. We want to link it with our allies on the eastern front, the Poles, the Russians. I thought about “Stalin’s Surprise” but that’s going over the top a bit. Our Victory Pie has to meet all the criteria, a protein main dish – beans in bacon or pork, with pickled red cabbage and carrot and turnip mashed together . . . cheerful don’t you think? It’s the blue pudding which I can’t sort yet. Any ideas?’
‘Blackberries or plums,’ Wyn suggests. ‘Or bilberries?’
‘Too early in the season. I made last year’s into jam, but we still might get some bottled from the W.I. and add apples to eke it out a bit, a bilberry fool perhaps?’
‘She’s a fool if she thinks anyone’ll eat that.’
‘Shush, Mrs Spear, I think it’s original, a red, white and blue meal.’ Dorrie is relieved to get away from the tensions at home now Sol has departed. Father, who senses her backsliding, has enlisted Pastor Gillibrand to involve her in more activities at the Gospel Hall. They plan some Evangelical ‘Outreach’ to all the service folk, expecting her to sing at each service, to raise the emotional temperature in the Gospel Hall as she sings, ‘Just as I am, without one plea. But that Thy blood was shed for me’. Singing, to seduce the wavering sinners out front, to join the Pastor at the pulpit rail and get themselves saved.
‘Wake up, Dorrie Daydream. We can gain extra points by extending the theme to other items, cakes, fancies, even decor.’ Belle struggles to recapture their waning enthusiasm.
Lichfield bustles with troops on the move and there is little time even to clear the tables before the next onslaught of starving customers gobble up the menu. Wyn says the whole world is cranking up a gear, ready for the last hard uphill slog home, to peace.
‘Curtis told my mam that they’re emptying all the jails back home and shipping them over here. Gangsters arrive still with handcuffs on them. It’s getting near to boiling point up on the Heath, not an inch of turf left. They are ready for the Big Push, cancelling all leave, just in case. Isn’t it exciting?’
Dorrie shrugs her shoulders nonchalantly; inside she feels like screaming. Oh Lucky! Time’s running out for us.
‘Who left the kitchen in this state! . . . Just look at the mess on the floor, flour, treacle all over the place . . . what a waste! Is this your idea of a joke, Dorrie Goodman?’
‘No, Mrs Spear,’ says the girl, as she rolls out the pastry for the third time. Once again it crumbles and splits. The urge to fling it across the room is overwhelming. Her hands are far too hot and sticky; a note from Lucky burns a hole in her pocket but there is no time to read it in private.
Connie is on the warpath again, picking fault with her staff, blaming them for it all as usual. ‘It must be her upstairs, up to her old tricks again . . . just wait till I tell her ladyship . . . the flour fairy’s been at Ruby Greville’s Cordial again . . . I can smell it. You can fuel a Spitfire off one of them bottles.’
For once this slander is overheard. The Prin forgets her discretion in the rush to defend herself. ‘It not me, it Meez Morton . . . she work
late last night, she very naughty lady. I come in from ze pictures. I see cellar door open . . . I tell you, they rabbiting all night . . . such a racket I no sleep. You all hear siren last night, we called out by zat nasty fireman. I come down ze stairs, wiz curling rags and hot water bottle. She come out of cellar, wiz Digger man and tin of treacle . . . it everywhere, she plastered like cat wiz cream . . . very happy lady now!’
‘What a cock and bull story, indeed. I have to hand it to you. You lie like a trooper . . . can’t half spice up a story . . . canoodling in that damp, dark place . . . whatever next?’
‘Is true . . . if no believe me, ask Meez Morton. She make this mess. If bomb fall, we find them melted like toasted sandwich . . . I tell you.’ Prin spits out her false teeth in the effort.
Dorrie’s eyebrows signal to Wyn in disbelief at the thought of anyone that old doing such things in the cellar.
Her employer, as if on cue, breezes through the door breathlessly. ‘Sorry I’m late, girls, had a bit of a disturbed night. Oh dear . . . I must have got carried away with my baking in the blackout! We’ll just do spam fritters today. Come on, chop, chop.’ She pauses, seeing the shocked row of faces and gaping mouths. ‘Let’s get the batter a bit crisper, Connie, than last time. It was like shoe leather. If the hens are doing their bit, then let’s do those eggs justice, eh?’
Dorrie notices the treacle stains on her skirt and muffles her giggles into the mixing bowl. ‘Shall I fetch a mop and bucket?’ she croaks. Life at the Vic was certainly taking a turn for the better!
Saturday Afternoon
Isobel Morton inspected the communal garden in front of her cottage in Vicar’s Close with disgust. It had a definite morning after a night on the tiles look: battered seedy perennials collapsing like drunken soldiers and a lawn unshaven for weeks. Standards were slipping, even the autumn garden reflected her decrepitude, willing enough spirit but oh! the weak, weak flesh.
The coming visitation tolled like a knell in her head. Like a boulder thrown in a pond, Dorrie Goodman was stirring up the mud.
She cleared out the last stragglers in the clay pots by her porch and cuffed a few of the borders half-heartedly about the ears. ‘My gardening days are over. There was a time I could winter dig an allotment and think nothing of it,’ she sighed.
