He got up to go, but they pressed a great wedge of Christmas pudding on to him, and when he had pushed it around his plate for five minutes they presented him with a dish of mince pies. All the time carols ground over and over on the wireless. The nice ladies in flower-patterned pinafores and anxious smiles that said ‘We’re doing this for the war effort; in normal times we wouldn’t be seen dead in a place like this’ just nodded as he left.
He staggered from the canteen. The nearest shop to the station was selling surgical appliances, with plaster legs in the window wearing flesh-coloured surgical stockings. This was where he bought French letters. He went in, out of force of habit.
‘Packet of three,’ he requested. God knows when he was going to use them. The woman’s face behind the counter had seen it all and didn’t like any of it. Where did they get these old shrews that were always in these places? Enough to put you off for life.
He came out. Handy to the shop were a gaggle of prostitutes. They all wore berets, as though they were pretending to be French. A French prostitute knew a few tricks that the British hadn’t thought of, at least that’s what the English believed. He looked at them critically. No. After Flora it would be an insult. Besides, they would expect to be paid. It was a point of honour not to have to pay for it.
*
There was only one light on the ward. That was on the table where the sister sat. You could just about see. In any case, he didn’t feel like talking. There were conversations going on all round. The soldiers indulging in nostalgia, trying to find points of reference; long straggling conversations, punctuated by sighs and giggles. Jimmy fell into a light doze. Then he felt something wet and sticky on his face. He put his hand up and at the same time felt the imprint of a kiss on his forehead. It was light – only there for a second. He opened his eyes, but she’d gone. He sighed with contentment and went to sleep happy.
Chalkie didn’t expect much good cheer this Christmas. True, the prison padre brought in the Salvation Army band, who sounded tinny among all the metal stairs and corridors. What the hell had he got to be thankful for? Stuck in this hole while everybody else was whooping it up. During his life he hadn’t seemed to have many options. He never liked school. The masters took every opportunity to whack him with the cane. He never learnt much. His dad was often out of work. His mum did cleaning, so much of it that she was too tired to do any at home. He drifted into petty thieving and was often caught. It wasn’t until he got called up that he found out that his eyes were bad. No wonder he was a dunce at school. Of course he couldn’t read; he couldn’t see the print! And now he was in this mess, up in court on a serious charge.
He couldn’t do anything about his face. It was the eyes that gave him away. They were blue and full of guile. The baby face and the blond curly hair gave him the look of an evil baby. And the air of outraged innocence seemed entirely false. If it were left to a jury he would have little chance.
He was in the dock, and Jock’s statement had been read out. The judge asked whether this Private Patterson would be appearing in person, and Chalkie tried to look serious when the court was told that he had been fished out of the canal. That was the end of that then. No witness. No case. Let’s all pack up and go home. Muffins for tea. The steaming bastard Jock had tried to stitch him up but, in the end, couldn’t face the consequences of his betrayal. Serve him right, rotten sod. The prosecuting counsel, a young smug-faced public school type, put it to the judge that the fact that the man was dead did not invalidate the statement he had made when he was alive.
The judge shook his head. ‘There is no doubt that the defendant will challenge every word, and then where are we? I will admit the statement, but – Are there any other witnesses?’
Who, for Christ’s sake? Chalkie tried to suppress a smile, but a merry sparkle came into his eye.
‘Yes,’ said the barrister. ‘A Miss Emily Jones.’
It was like it was at the pictures. The judge looked like an old actor who had finished playing juvenile leads a few years ago but still kept his hand in for the odd few bob. And when a name was mentioned it was repeated by different voices, echoing down a corridor. Chalkie began to feel anxious. Who was Emily Jones?
A skinny-looking bird came in. He didn’t know her; never seen her before in his life. What the fuck was she doing here? What was worse, she stared at him as though he had done her some terrible wrong. What the hell had she got against him? She had on a neat pleated skirt and jumper with a blazer on top. She wore lots of lipstick, and her hair was all fluffy, as though it had just been washed.
Miss Emily Jones settled in the witness box and took the oath. The prosecuting counsel began. ‘Miss Jones, will you tell the court what you saw on the 29th of August of this year?’
The skinny woman stared in front of her, catching nobody’s eye. ‘I saw a fight.’
‘Can you describe the nature of the fight. Who were the participants?’
‘There were two soldiers and a Yank.’
‘Was there anything particular about this fight that made you remember it?’
‘Yes, there was. There’s fights going on all the time between the British and the Yanks, but they usually get up and walk away. This time the Yank just lay still. As though he was dead.’
‘You didn’t know he was dead?’
‘Not until I read about it in the paper.’ Emily Jones seemed quite composed. She had come to the court to give evidence, and that was what she was going to do.
Chalkie stared at her, hoping she would look his way. Who was she? Was she one of the girls who tumbled the Yank for his wallet? There were two of them. They ran off when he and Jock started on the American.
‘Can you describe the form of this fight?’
‘Vicious,’ said Emily Jones. ‘Two on to one.’
‘And do you see anyone in court who was involved in this vicious fighting?’
‘Yes. Him,’ she said, pointing at Chalkie. ‘He banged his head against the pillar. I saw him.’
Chalkie was beginning to sweat. This wasn’t going at all well. The silly cow was dropping him in it good and proper. He felt a sudden lurch in his stomach. He was going to fart. He couldn’t help it. That would clear the court! Surely he wasn’t going to shit himself? He’d been constipated for days. He just couldn’t do it with two other blokes in the cell.
Why? Why was she doing this? What was she getting out of it? The Yanks! Of course! The Yanks were out to avenge one of their own. If Chalkie were convicted it would make their case. It was the British that always started the trouble. Yes, but the Yanks asked for it. Throwing their money around. Booze, fags and chocolate. Most of the women would lay themselves out for a pair of nylons. If Emily Jones helped get Chalkie convicted the Yanks would be very grateful to her.
But surely what she said wouldn’t be enough to convict him? It was the same as Jock’s evidence. She could say what she liked, and he could say it was all bollocks.
Chalkie’s barrister took her through her evidence. First of all, was she absolutely certain it was Chalkie she saw. It was dark. How could she be sure?
‘It’s his hair,’ she said. ‘Blond. The other one was dark.’
The trouble was that the silly cow’s story backed up the statement they had got from Jock.
‘And what about the dark one? What part did he play in this … fight?’
‘Oh, he hit him as well but with his fists. He didn’t bang the Yank’s head against the pillar. He did that,’ she said, looking at Chalkie.
Chalkie’s brain started swimming in his head. The cow had got it in for him. Why? The fact was that her and her mate were rolling the Yank for his wallet. And now she’d turned into a responsible citizen, getting free nylons for life!
Emily Jones left the witness box, but that wasn’t the end.
‘Call Ethel Stubbs.’
Christ! They got the other girl as well!
Ethel Stubbs’s evidence was the same as Emily Jones’s. She’d seen the fight – well, it
wasn’t exactly a fight. Two British soldiers were beating up the Yank. Had she any idea what caused the fight?
‘Yes. Me and Emily. If the British see us with a Yank they think it’s treason or something.’
‘And this … resentment could be strong enough to kill someone?’
‘They’d had a few.’
By this time Chalkie was privately praying. He kept hearing Jock’s voice. ‘Thought you’d got away with it, did ye?’
How had he got to this state?
Of course Jock was always egging him on. Daring him. Pushing him over the limit. He hadn’t got anything against the Yanks. Not really. They were ordered about. Sent away. They had no say in their lives. The same as him. It was just that everybody had it in for them. The way they showed off. They had better kit, better uniforms, more money. It just got on your nerves. It wasn’t the Yanks themselves; it was the unfairness of it all, making British soldiers feel like the poor relations in their own country. When you went to the pictures there were the Yanks, winning the war, with the British soldiers in the background, like peasants.
14
THE Major felt quite pleased with himself. The evening with Mrs Grantley had gone well. It was civilized conversation, and he had enjoyed the respite from his worries. It was, after all, Christmas. A time of goodwill. Thank God that Harry would be back tomorrow. In the meantime it was good to know that he had regained the goodwill of Grace Grantley. She had asked him to visit again.
He had stunned her with his dress uniform, but she hadn’t made any approaches other than merely friendly ones. He pecked at her cheek as he left, and she accepted the gesture as normal and not especially significant. As long as it remained above the waist everything would be all right. She needed a friend, a male friend. He had been silly to think that there was more in it. Boxing Day was just the fag end of Christmas, for eating up the leftovers. Tidying up. Writing letters.
He rang his sister who seemed her usual dull self. Maybe this was what was wrong. She had been his only female companion for so long; probably the reason he had never got married. The fact was that Marjory was dull. Even when young she didn’t have any spirit, didn’t follow national or world affairs. Life in the army was a life without the easement that women brought to a relationship. In the man’s world everything was black and white. There was no doubt that women brought subtle shades and were often more pragmatic. They could see the wood from the trees. Men got trapped in vanities and feuds, frittering their time away without getting much satisfaction from the waste. Grace flattered him, and of course he loved the attention, but there was the down-to-earth Grace who longed for male companionship and wasn’t too proud to go out of her way to get it.
God knows what the New Year would bring. The British Army had been making good progress but was bogged down in the place where it always got bogged down, Ardennes, with the German General von Rundstet calling on Brigadier McAuliffe to surrender. The Major remembered Ardennes as the place where he won his MC. He shuddered at the memory of that act of foolishness.
Charlie waited outside the hospital. Rosa came off duty at 8 p.m. after working from 8 a.m. She would be tired, of course, and had the same stint to face tomorrow. They were killing hours, longer than most manual workers, who in any case would expect everything over eight hours to be paid at overtime rates. She came out, still in uniform with her little red cloak shielding her from the cold.
‘We’ll go to the pub,’ he said.
‘I’ll have to change first,’ she said. ‘Not allowed in pubs in uniform.’
So he waited again, another ten minutes, until she emerged in her day clothes. The nearest pub was five minutes away. They were the only people in the saloon bar. There were a few in the public. The wireless was transmitting the inevitable Glenn Miller selection. ‘Moonlight Serenade’, ‘In the Mood’ and ‘Little Brown Jug’ seemed to accompany every phase of the war, the lush orchestrations promising some comfort from everyday hardships. The music transported the troops, the factory workers and people at everyday tasks into a sort of musical fairyland where everything would be all right. Life might be hard, but romance and true love were just around the corner.
Rosa had a dry sherry, and Charlie had a pint of bitter. They sat together, content in their own company.
Charlie said suddenly, ‘We ought to get married.’
‘Is that a proposal?’ asked Rosa.
Charlie laughed. ‘No. I feel that we’re married already. Just haven’t gone through the formalities.’
‘And when do you suggest that this event should take place?’
‘Soon,’ he said. He put his arm around her waist. ‘I shall be going away soon.’
Rosa felt a stab of anxiety. She had never considered a time when he would not be near to hand. ‘I’ve only just found you,’ she said, and Glenn Miller launched into ‘It Must Be Jelly ’Cause Jam Don’t Shake Like That’.
‘I know,’ he said. ‘But I’ve got to put things right. I’ve spent too long being Daft Charlie. Next week I shall be going to somewhere in Kent to do my basic training.’
‘I don’t want you to go, but I don’t want you to go on being Daft Charlie.’
‘I have to do this, you see. I’ve got to regain my self-respect.’
It soon got to ten o’clock, and the pub landlord rang the bell. With arms locked around the other’s waist they walked back to the nurses’ home. He kissed her gently on her cheek and then, when he found her lips, more urgently.
‘My God!’ she spluttered. ‘I’ve got to go in now.’
‘Is there any way we could be together?’
‘You can’t come in. If that’s what you mean.’
‘And you don’t want to leave me, do you? After next week I won’t be here.’
‘I know, but … there’s a sister that sits in the hall.’
‘Tell her we’re in love.’
‘I don’t think she’d be impressed. Wait a minute. Stay there.’ She went off.
He stood by a tree and watched her open the door.
It was quiet. There were grounds between the hospital and the nurses’ home, and no one was about. In a few moments the home would be locked for the night. He heard a movement behind him. He turned. He could hear a slight scratching noise, then a scrape. He walked softly towards the noise. Then a whisper. ‘Here. Over here.’ He moved towards the direction of the whisper. She was standing at a window. The bottom half was open.
‘Come on. Quick! Don’t make a noise.’
He lifted one leg into the room. He straddled the window sill. When he lifted the other leg there was a ripping sound. ‘Bugger!’ he said.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘Torn my trousers.’
‘For God’s sake!’
‘We should have gone to a hotel.’
‘Too late now. It’s up the stairs. One flight.’
He followed her along the darkened corridor, up a set of stairs, to a small room with two single beds.
‘It’s all right. Bunty’s gone home. Her father’s ill.’
‘I wasn’t thinking of sleeping in separate beds.’
‘No. Of course not.’
There was a small Roberts radio in the room. She switched it on. Glenn Miller was just starting ‘American Patrol’.
‘Let’s have a look at your pants.’
He turned around.
She giggled. ‘I can see your bum.’
‘Let’s have a look at yours,’ he said, unbuttoning her blouse.
Eventually they got settled in the single bed and enjoyed the close proximity. He was soon stimulated enough to want to get on top of her. She reached out and shut off Glenn Miller and switched off the small bedside lamp. Almost by instinct she guided him into her, and soon his energetic pumping began to rattle the bed. At the climax the bedhead jumped out of the frame on one side and they both ended up on the floor.
The noise must have attracted the attention of the night sister. A light went on in the corridor outside. T
hen a rap on the door.
‘All right in there?’
‘The bed has sort of … collapsed,’ Rosa called out. ‘I’ll be all right now.’
‘You sure?’
The door handle turned. Christ! The nosy cow was coming in!
The light was switched on.
Rosa had managed to unite the two pieces of bed frame. ‘Don’t know what happened,’ she said.
‘Sounded like a nightmare,’ said the sister. ‘Shall I get you something to get you to sleep?’
‘No. I’ll be all right now.’
The sister left, shaking her head. These young nurses. Wasn’t like this in her day. Sister Barton, only a year off retirement, had been given the job of night sister at the nurses’ home as an act of charity. When she started her training the regime was feudal. Over the years she had seen many changes. She couldn’t keep up with the new methods, new treatments and, above all, new ways of thinking. Gin had been her refuge, and it gradually became clear that as a nurse it was possible that she could do more harm than good. So a diplomatic solution was sought, and Sister Barton knew she was lucky to have avoided dismissal. The nurses thought she was a dry old stick, but she still had a job to do and she was going to do it conscientiously.
Rosa was stiff with fright. What a story she’d have to tell, with Sister coming into the room where there was a naked man under the second bed!
‘I think you’d better get out before the ceiling falls in.’
Charlie hurriedly assembled his clothes. ‘We shouldn’t have to scramble about like this. Next time it’s the Ritz.’
‘I can still see your bum.’
‘I’ll have to risk that.’
She led him down the flight of stairs.
The window was stuck. Charlie wrestled with it. You could hear the rattling all over the building. ‘It won’t open.’
‘It did before.’
Eventually the window eased enough for him to be able to push it from underneath.
‘All right down there?’ It was the night sister’s voice from above.
Long and the Short Page 19
