Chalkie found out about Jock’s death by reading it in the paper. The Manchester Evening News reported that he had been identified by his name plate hanging around his neck. He had fallen into the canal while under the influence of alcohol. ‘Tragic Death of a Soldier.’ So the dirty bastard had done himself in. Served him right, Chalkie thought. But did it cast a reflection on his own position in Strange ways? It was true that Jock had sworn and signed an incriminating statement, but he wouldn’t be able to back it up in person. If Chalkie said it was all nonsense, and that Jock was a compulsive liar and an alcoholic, why shouldn’t he be believed against a dead man who had fallen into the canal when he was sozzled to the gills? The long and deadly game of dare and bluff had come to a tragic end. Jock had taken it a step too far. And it was Chalkie who had won, his opponent having killed himself in the attempt. When he got into the witness box it should be a piece of cake.
13
CHRISTMAS Day was marked by a curious tradition. Officers got up early and brought tea to the men while they were still in bed, which, in the event, was a shock to both parties. It was a gesture; it was only once a year, and it was all over in five minutes. In the Major’s case he relied on Harry getting him up, making the tea and helping him to get dressed. So good order was maintained backstage. Alf, Taffy and Charlie acted suitably surprised. They had plenty of space in the barrack room with Jock gone, Chalkie in clink and Jimmy in hospital, so they had spread out a bit.
This Christmas had somehow come alive. There was real hope that this would be the last wartime one. True, the table would be low on Christmas fare. No turkey, no Christmas pud. Not much to drink, no Christmas crackers, and Christmas cakes missing some vital ingredients, but there was holly and mistletoe which Jimmy hoped to use to his delight in the hospital. He was up now and could walk a bit; go out into the grounds. He wasn’t ill any more, just convalescing. He was deeply in love with the nurse called Peggy. He had decided that he wasn’t going to leave the hospital until she agreed to go out with him. Christmas was his chance, and he knew it. So did Peggy. Her dark, mischievous eyes seemed to read his mind, so that every time their eyes met he blushed. There was a Christmas tree in the ward and just one sprig of mistletoe, which Jimmy sort of hung around casually, as though he hadn’t noticed it was there.
The hospital Christmas lunch was quite good. Some sort of fowl, could have been turkey, could have been chicken, with stuffing and sprouts, and a reasonable attempt at a Christmas pudding. Carol singers had been in the night before. A little band of children and old people led by a white-haired vicar. When they had finished singing they came round the beds giving out mince pies. They were nice people, what you called good people, but Jimmy just wanted them to go away. And then just when Peggy was in the area of the mistletoe she was relieved by Bunty, a stout no-nonsense nurse who immediately ordered everyone to bed.
Harry was on the train. He could have gone a day earlier, but he wasn’t looking forward to being with Renee. She was a nice girl but limited. The V2 had replaced the V1. It was a rocket shell that could be fired from a hundred miles away and exploded on impact. She claimed she had seen something in the sky, like a mirror reflection in the sun, and seconds later the thing exploded in Tooting High Street, wrecking a hairdresser’s and a grocery shop. The next day young boys ran by shouting ‘Got any broken biscuits!’ Renee was full of such stories. She was only a girl when the Blitz was on, but she remembered every minute of it: the time when Lizzie Barnes, just down the street, was in the bath when the siren went, and as she was getting out the house next door was demolished, and the firemen had to rescue Lizzie from the bathroom window with only a towel on, which fell off as she was coming down, with Lizzie shouting hysterically, ‘Don’t look!’
Renee’s mother went early in the war. Not killed by enemy action. In fact, if anyone was to blame it was the British government. When the war started there was six months of what was called ‘the phoney war’, when neither side seemingly wanted to fire the first shot. Fearing an air attack, the government had ordered a black-out in case cities could be identified by rows of street lights. So there were no lights, houses had to be blacked out, all windows covered with some sort of dark cloth. And cars without headlamps and brake lights was a hazard that pedestrians found hard to contend with. You were allowed to take a torch, but it could be switched on only in an emergency. Renee’s mum was run over by a butcher’s van as it backed out of an archway, one of over five hundred civilians to perish in this way before the war had properly started.
Everything that had happened in Renee’s life had the war in the background. The war was the most important event in her life. And, in her way, she fought for her country. She was enthusiastic about refashioning old clothes into serviceable garments, growing food in the tiny garden, conserving waste for feeding pigs, supporting the ARP wardens with hot drinks, collecting paper and cardboard for salvage. She had special boxes for tins, silver paper and even bones after she’d boiled them dry for a stew. If you took the war away Renee’s life would be bleak. Thus all her conversation was related, in some way, to the war. In fact she was enjoying the struggle, part of the backbone of Britain. There was more of the war in Harry’s home than there was in the army.
She greeted him enthusiastically, but the kiss was perfunctory. Tom, aged one, grinned toothlessly. Her father was coming for Christmas Day lunch. She’d saved up her meat coupons to get a couple of thighs of chicken. It was Christmas Eve. They hung a pillow case on Tom’s cot. When they went to bed she offered herself to him. ‘Do you want to?’ But it was too much like a duty for him to accept. Satisfied that she fulfilled her obligations Renee soon fell asleep, and Harry was left feverishly recalling his last night with Joan in the Blackpool hotel.
The next day Sid, Renee’s father, arrived. He was a brickie’s labourer who in his best suit looked like a parcel that had been kicked around the docks. Harry took him to the pub while Renee cooked the dinner. It was a noisy place, with everyone in a mood of celebration.
The general feeling was that Hitler was on the run. It was a toss-up who got to him first – the Russians, the Yanks or the British. There was a strong undercurrent view that the German people would rise up or the German Army would revolt and deal with him themselves. Anyway the British people had survived the threat of an invasion; made a few mistakes, but something inherent in the British spirit had seen them through.
The old man settled behind a pint of mild and bitter and began a series of rambling reminiscences in which he had outsmarted his employer, his mates or someone in authority.
‘I was in the last lot,’ he said. ‘That was a do. Stuck in trenches. Chilblains! Big as coconuts. If you went for a shit you had to keep your tin hat on.’
‘Must have been a bugger,’ said Harry.
‘Certainly was, son. Certainly was.’
Quite spontaneously a group of mixed servicemen and civilians started singing the National Anthem. A number of the singers stood to attention.
Harry sat quietly. The old man was beginning to look flushed.
When the King had been sent happy and glorious a burly sergeant came over. ‘Ain’tcha got no respect, soldier?’
‘Piss off,’ said Harry.
‘Oh. Like that, is it? I think we’d better settle this outside. Someone needs to learn some manners.’
At the suggestion of a fight several spectators gathered round the two prospective protagonists.
‘He’s in the army. What’s this?’ he said, pointing to Harry’s uniform. ‘Scotch mist?’
‘Ain’t improved his manners.’
‘I’m off duty,’ Harry said. ‘Listen. I’ve been in this outfit for five years. Five years out of my life. What could I have done in that time, eh? Learnt a trade? Bought a house? Started a business? Tell me, when am I going to start on my life? And all because I was stupid enough to join the TA. I saw them in the street, marching with a band. They said they would let me play the drum. And I’ve been lucky. Lucky! I’v
e got gastric ulcers. I’ve had two operations. But I’m still alive, with a holding unit. If I hadn’t have had gastric ulcers I’d probably be dead by now. All because the stupid people in charge can’t sort things out without killing millions of people. Shooting people, dropping bombs. Kids in gas-masks. For Christ’s sake! Babies in gas-masks! What sort of life is that?’
Harry’s outburst received a mixed reception. There were cries of ‘Well said, soldier!’ and ‘Quite right!’ But there was also an atmosphere of disquiet. These people wanted to be proud. Proud of the way they had battled through; stood up to Hitler. It wasn’t their fault that the Germans had voted in a madman.
The belligerent sergeant looked baffled. ‘Battle fatigue,’ he said.
That night Harry screwed Renee, who feigned delight. He wasn’t sure yet, but he had the feeling that it might be the last time. She hadn’t done anything. It was a shame, but a woman as shallow as her would soon pick up a bloke. She’d been a good sort. She wasn’t keen on sex, but she let him perform and tried to please him. She’d always been the same. No buzz, no electricity between them. Not even the first time when her mother was out. There was always the sense that she was allowing him to touch her because that was what men were like. If you wanted a husband you had to put up with it. And now, three years married, they seemed to have settled into the usual truce.
Going away from London had weakened the tie the capital had on him. There was life elsewhere. And he knew where. He had a three-day pass, and he was glad when it was up.
‘You will write,’ said Renee.
‘I will. But I’m kept pretty busy looking after the old man.’
When he got to the station he felt light and happy. His shoulders relaxed. He was used to service life. He could handle his life in the army. Could he go away and never see London again? The city was in his veins. He was proud of being a Londoner, but what did it mean really? Joan had shown him the innate sentimentality of Londoners.
Charlie got a three-day pass as well, but Rosa had to work at the hospital. So he didn’t go away. He just hung around waiting for her to come off duty. On Christmas Day she somehow managed to get him in for the Christmas dinner. He sat with her and a young nurse with dark eyes called Peggy, who was teasing young Jimmy Fossett something awful. The poor little bugger was bright red most of the time.
Charlie took him on one side. ‘What are you feeling guilty about?’
‘Don’t know,’ said Jimmy.
‘You’ve got to be bolder. You’re as good as she is. If she don’t fancy you there’s nothing you can do about it. On the other hand, if she does fancy you nothing will stop her letting you know about it.’
‘Girls make a fool of me.’
‘That’s because you’re so obvious. Try being a bit indifferent.’
So Jimmy started to feign indifference – not even looking at Peggy. It was up to her to give a sign, which she didn’t.
*
After doing their early-morning duty with the tea Major Le Surf and Captain Martin, MO, walked back to the mess for their breakfast. Somehow there was bacon and egg.
‘Don’t know about you,’ said the Major, ‘but after this I’m going back to bed.’
‘Have you any plans for the rest of the day?’ Martin asked.
The Major shook his head. ‘Just to phone my sister.’
‘Why didn’t you go home for a few days?’
‘Well, I had to do the honours this morning. And now there aren’t any trains. I’ve got an invitation from Gryce, but …’
‘What?’
‘Well, you know what she’s like.’
‘She’s a perfectly normal woman. It’s what you’re like.’
The old man looked worried. ‘I think I’m too old for that sort of thing.’
‘How do you know if you haven’t tried?’
The old man thought this a distinctly odd conversation. Of course Martin was a medical man. These people put everything down to some dysfunction owing to having a bunged-up teat in the feeding bottle. He recalled a servant girl called Lizzie, who used to stay with him when his parents went out. She kept looking at him as though she had a precious secret that she would tell him one day when he was older, but, just for now, he could put his hand inside her chemise if she could put her hand inside his trousers. The whole business was most peculiar. He’d forgotten all about it. The way Martin talked you might imagine that Grace Grantley was dying for the want of attention.
‘Why don’t you go round?’ Martin said.
‘What about you?’
‘It’s not me she wants.’
The two officers finished their breakfast and returned to their respective rooms. The Major slept until midday, then he got into the bath and dreamt away until the water grew cold. Charlie had laid out a clean shirt. The Major put it on. Opening the wardrobe he saw his dress uniform. It was a long time since he’d worn that. It was a bit fancy; more fancy than military. He’d got the first one for mess nights at the OCTU. Later, when he was kept on as an instructor, he had another one made. God knows whether it would fit him now. He tried the trousers. They were loose at the waist; didn’t matter with braces. The tunic jacket went on a treat. Of course he would need another shirt. Khaki didn’t go with blue serge. He found a white shirt, a bit crumpled. He was surprised to see that the buttons on the tunic were all still shiny. He admired himself in the full-length mirror, putting on the peaked cap. How was that for the Lancers?
God knows, he could do with a diversion. There was a problem looming that made the fact that a man was remanded in prison on the charge of murdering an ally and that another had been found dead drunk in the canal pale into insignificance. He had had a preliminary meeting with the young officer who was defending the young private in the case of the murdered German officer. The officer couldn’t seem to get it into his head that this was a military matter. He clearly thought that the police should have been called, and the Major, in retrospect, thought he might have a point. He had assumed total control, investigated the best he could and come to the conclusion, with Harry’s help, that the officer, a Gestapo man, was murdered by the mutual agreement and combined efforts of his fellow prisoners. Now all these men had been sent to various prisoner-of-war camps, and it would be the devil’s own job to trace them all for further questioning.
When he thought about the ramifications the Major got a headache. Should he have called the police? He had reported the matter to HQ first thing in the morning and liaised with Colonel Stepney afterwards. Nobody at HQ had said anything about the police. Did they assume that he would have done this? If the police were called it was inevitable that the whole business would have got into the papers. Would the War Office have wanted that? After all, the man was a German, and hundreds of his fellow countrymen were being killed every day. And he was in the SS, the lowest of the low, hardly tolerated by his fellow soldiers. And then there was an inquiry from another quarter.
The dead man’s parents had gone to the International Red Cross. All these lines were running towards him. He was the centre point where they all converged.
Maybe he should pay Grace a visit? They’d always got on well, before she developed a pash on him. If they could just have a pleasant evening like they used to. After all, it was Christmas, a time for charitable thoughts. There was a stick somewhere, but maybe that was overdoing it. He didn’t want to look as though he was going to a fancy-dress ball or playing Pinkerton in Madam Butterfly.
He stepped outside. A pity Harry wasn’t here. He would have tactfully told him whether he looked an ass or not. But, in any case, what had he got to lose?
It was a quarter-of-a-mile walk to Mrs Grantley’s house. It was dark, so the figure of an old man dressed for a Victorian ball did not excite any comment. In any case, Christmas evening was a time for excesses. He knocked on the door. When Grace opened it he was mostly in the dark. There was no warm glow from houses in the black-out. ‘Eon!’ she exclaimed. ‘Come in!’ It was only when they reache
d her lounge that the full splendour of the Major’s attire could be seen.
‘My!’ she said. ‘This is a surprise! Don’t you look splendid.’
‘Found it in the wardrobe. Tried it on to see if it still fits.’
There were other people in the house, who stared at him as if he’d just come off stage from a grand opera.
‘My next-door neighbours,’ explained Mrs Grantley. ‘Dick and Blanche.’
‘We were just going,’ said Blanche, who looked as if she knew when to take a hint.
‘Yes,’ said Dick. ‘We’ve got to feed the canary.’
In no time the Major and Mrs Grantley were on their own.
‘Gryce,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid I’ve dropped a bit of a clanger. You see, I’m not really used to the company of women.’
‘Don’t worry. I’m not going to eat you.’ Grace was charmed with the situation. This was as personal as they had got.
‘The fact is …’ the Major stumbled, ‘I do find your company very agreeable …’
Well, it wasn’t much, thought Grace, but it was a start. ‘Let me get you a brandy,’ she offered.
He relaxed. Maybe this would turn out quite well after all.
George Gross sat in the Toc H canteen on Piccadilly Station. He was at a loose end. He was barred from seeing Flora, although he knew he could meet her tomorrow when the AmDram put on their panto Dick Whittington. Flora was playing Dick, and he could have played Baron Hardup, but as his availability was always open to question they had offered someone else the part. He missed the rehearsals, he missed being Gordon, he missed all the backstage scuffles, he missed the temperamental hysteria, the backstabbing and the tears. He’d had a Christmas dinner, but the kind ladies in the Toc H had pressed him into having another. They’d ‘over-catered’, they said, and it was a shame to let the food go to waste. He was doing his best to please them, but the bulk of it was beginning to weigh heavy in his stomach. They were such nice old dears that he couldn’t bear to disappoint them.
Long and the Short Page 18
