And then the haircut: pretty brutal, the clippers run straight from the nape of the neck to the forehead and then a swift finish off round the sides, bit of a shock, but it was only hair for God’s sake, it would grow again. Charles had been appalled to see a couple of Teddy boys, all swagger in the lorry, near to tears as their DAs, short for Drake’s Arse, drifted to the floor.
They had eaten that night in the canteen – pretty disgusting muck on tin plates, using their regulation ‘eating irons’ in army speak, sausages, some burnt, some almost raw, a heap of oily onions, another heap of watery mash, followed by bread and jam. Charles, used to the horrors of public-school food, found it not too unbearable, but several of the boys silently scraped their still-full plates into the dustbins. Probably, they were the ones crying now.
God, he wanted to pee. He’d have to go and find the latrines. He eased himself out of bed and walked quietly down the hut, carefully avoiding looking at any beds in case he embarrassed one of the blubbers. Actually, why bother with the latrines – which had looked pretty disgusting – when outside would do? He slipped out of the hut, peed with huge relief into the darkness and was just going back when he heard an amused cockney voice.
‘That better?’
‘Eh? Oh, yes, thanks.’
‘I s’pose this is all a bit like your school, isn’t it?’
‘Well, yes, it is a bit.’
‘Yeah, I’ve heard you public school lot take to it all like ducks to water. Drakes, rather. Ciggy?’
‘Oh – yes, thanks.’
Charles took a cigarette from the pack of Woodbines being offered. He could see quite well now, his eyes adjusted to the darkness. Not that it was very dark, there were tall arc lights on every corner of the camp.
‘Talking of drakes, did you see that bloke crying as his hair came off?’
‘I did, yes.’
‘Quite a few crying in there now. Poor little mummy’s boys.’ He held out his hand. ‘Matt Shaw.’
‘Charles. Charles Clark.’
‘Where you from, then, Charles?’
‘Oh – Wiltshire.’
‘Yeah? Don’t know that area at all. I’m from London. As no doubt you can hear.’
‘Sort of,’ said Charles carefully.
‘Pretty recognisable, really. Like your accent, no mistaking that either. What d’you reckon we’ll do tomorrow, then?’
‘I rather fear it’s all the medical stuff. You know, injections and so on. It’s Friday.’
‘What’s that got to do with it?’
‘I’ve heard they make you feel a bit rough. You get the weekend to recover a bit. And after that I expect an introduction to drill.’
‘Blimey, those crybabies won’t like the needles will they? More tears I reckon. What you been doing up till now then, Charles?’
‘I’ve been at university.’
‘Yeah? Thought you was a bit older than the rest of us. Oxford I s’pose? Or Cambridge?’
‘Oxford,’ said Charles.
‘Thought so.’ He grinned at Charles. ‘As you can see I know all about the upper classes.’
Charles grinned back at him. He liked him. As far as he could make out in the half-light, Matt Shaw was rather good-looking. Dark hair – what was left of it – rather broad face, dark eyes, wide grin, and surprisingly good white teeth. Quite tall – a good six foot. Obviously pretty young.
There was the sound of boots on the concrete; most likely some kind of patrol. Charles jerked his head towards the hut and they shot in.
Charles had been right about the medical stuff. And Matt had been right about the tears. They were woken at five thirty by NCOs banging their pace sticks on their bed ends and fire buckets and shouting at them.
‘Come on, you ’orrible lot. Hands off cocks and on socks. Up, up, up.’
They were sent into the latrines – plugless basins, freezing cold, not a door to be seen – and then to breakfast. More bread and jam. And then out onto the parade ground. Their sergeant, a bullet-headed sadist, roared insults at them for what seemed like hours while they discovered the apparent impossibility of keeping in step. Charles had no trouble with that, he’d been in the Combined Cadet Corps at Eton, but he did discover his boots were too big. Better than too small, the other option – there were no half sizes – but he knew what the result would be. Blisters. Not fun.
They were also introduced to bulling: the army’s word for cleaning. Kit had to be polished and polished and polished again. Dimples had to be teased out of boots with heated spoons and treated literally with spit and polish; white belts were blancoed, brass shone – ‘I want those buttons shining like a shilling up a sheep’s arse,’ a sergeant shouted. They shouted non-stop; it added to the confusion.
And then at the end of the day, the syringes. Injections against yellow fever, typhoid, tetanus. The needles were alarmingly large: the MO kept a couple hanging casually from his white coat and didn’t sterilise them between each use. A couple of the lads fainted. Even Matt Shaw was quite pale afterwards and very quiet.
‘Fucking hurt,’ he said, managing a grin.
That night there was more muffled weeping.
Three days later, three days of drill and bull and being shouted at and insulted constantly, vile food and too little sleep, even Charles was low. Matt was very low. He missed supper on the Monday night, unlike him since he normally ate everything without complaint – ‘My mum don’t allow fussy feeders’ – and when Charles went to find him he was lying on his bed, clearly unwell.
‘Got an ’eadache,’ he said. ‘Bloody everything aches.’
Charles put a hand on his forehead; it was very hot.
‘You’ve got a temperature,’ he said. ‘Must be the jabs. Come on, I’ll come to the infirmary with you.’
‘What, and get ribbed for skiving? Not bloody likely. I’ll be all right.’
Next day he passed out on the parade ground and was sent to the infirmary anyway.
‘You’re reacting to the yellow fever shot,’ said the MO. ‘Temperature of one hundred and four. Should have told us earlier. We don’t want heroics here. Bloody stupid.’
Matt was too wretched to argue.
Charles went to visit him two days later; he found him sitting up, looking much more cheerful.
‘Back to the ’oliday camp day after tomorrow. Can’t wait.’
‘Wish I was lying down,’ said Charles, ‘I’ve got some hideous blisters.’
‘Yeah?’
‘They’ll harden up in no time. I’m treating them with meths, that toughens up the skin. We used to use it on our backsides at prep school when we’d been beaten.’
‘How old was you then?’ said Matt with interest.
‘Oh, about ten.’
‘And you paid for that, did you?’
‘Well, my parents did,’ said Charles with a grin.
‘Blimey. No wonder you’ve settled down here.’
‘Yeah, it’s much the same. Anyway, poor little Walton’s blisters are really bad. And he was put on jankers today, poor sod. That didn’t help.’
Being put on jankers meant having to run round the parade ground in full battle dress, complete with tin hat and bayonet, urged on none too gently by an NCO in running gear.
‘Poor bugger.’
Walton had become a friend of theirs, had sat in the NAAFI with them the second night and talked of his life as a Barnardo’s Boy. Like Charles, he was finding the army experience bearable, used as he was to institutional life; and he appeared unmoved by the constant criticism hurled at him. He was almost incapable of keeping in step; he had been called out on the third morning, so he could ‘show the rest of this shower ’ow it’s not done’, and quick-marched the width of the parade ground on his own. The drill sergeant watched in silence; then his lip curled.
‘Look at ’im,’ he roared, ‘just like a pregnant bloody fairy!’
‘I didn’t really care,’ Walton had said to Charles and Matt later, ‘except half the hut will
think he meant it, think I am a fairy. Which I’m not. If I ’ad been I wouldn’t be no more. You got beaten for it at the Home – if they caught you that is. Soon cured it, I can tell you.’
The weeks wore painfully on. With the first thirty-six-hour leave in sight, everyone was terrified of doing something that would jeopardise it. Punishment could descend from apparently nowhere, often on unjustly large numbers. But they were lucky, and their inspection more than passed muster, resulting in a cheery ‘jolly good, Sergeant, well done’ from the inspecting officer.
‘As if the bleedin’ sergeant done anything,’ said Matt bitterly.
Much of the first leave, the thirty-six hours so desperately looked forward to, was spent by the men in their beds. They came home literally exhausted, not only by the physcial trauma of their new lives, but the pressure, from being harried from first light to last, from struggling to cope with the ceaseless criticism and confusion, from the loss of any kind of privacy, from the fear of failure and the threat of punishment.
There was a lot of bravado, of boasting of imminent and immense sexual conquests and drinking, but Charles, looking round the hut as they waited to leave, almost everyone pale and hollow-eyed, thought there would be precious little energy for either activity. All he wanted, after a decent dinner, was to lie down on his own comfortable bed in his own quiet room at Summercourt and stay there until it was time to return.
Matt Shaw had no intention of spending any time in his bed. Since it would be in a room shared with two younger brothers and usually the family dog as well, a constantly yapping terrier called Scruff, there would be little point.
He got off the train at Clapham Junction and walked along the Northcote Road, savouring the freedom to move slowly, to smile and chat with various stallholders in the market who recognised him, ribbed him on his haircut, asked if he was a Field Marshal yet.
The Shaws lived in a small terraced house in a street just south of the Northcote Road; as Matt opened the gate, his two young brothers shot into his arms. He was touched.
‘You miss me, then?’
‘Not ’arf. No one to talk to,’ said twelve-year-old Derek.
‘An’ I ’ad to walk Scruff on me own,’ said nine-year-old Alan.
‘Shockin’. Oh, now here’s Mum. How’s my best girl then, eh?’
His mother smiled at him, gave him a hug.
‘Hello, Matt. You all right? You look a bit thin, love. And my word, what they done to your hair? It looks shocking.’
‘Mum, it’ll grow. Worse things happen than that, I can tell you. You look good, Mum. Like your hair.’
‘You noticed! More than your dad did. It was Scarlett’s idea, getting it cut.’
‘Very nice. Where is she?’
‘Away, love. Should be back tonight though, with luck. She’s in Rome.’
Sandra’s pride in Scarlett and her new career as an air hostess was almost unbearable. For a family to whom the Isle of Wight was abroad, to have a daughter who flew regularly to legendary places like Rome – and Paris and Venice and Madrid – was truly extraordinary.
‘She enjoying it still?’
‘Loving it. And the people she meets, really Matt, you’ve no idea—’
Matt, who had every idea of the people Scarlett met, having been regaled with the list of them as well as the destinations, said he was pleased to hear it, and he and Scarlett could catch up later.
‘Imagine if you get sent abroad, Matt, that’d be half the family over there. What a thought. Come and sit down, love. Want something to eat? How about a bacon sandwich?’
‘Oh, Mum, now you’re talking. Army food’s disgusting.’
He watched her as she fried the bacon, sipping a cup of her extra-strong, extra-sweet tea. She was great, his mum. She wasn’t like the other mothers round their way, she didn’t look halfway to old age already. At forty, Sandra Shaw was still pretty – very pretty. She was dark, very slim, with large brown eyes. She’d had a hard life; she’d had to do cleaning work to close the gap between what Peter Shaw brought home from his building job and what their large family needed, but had always claimed cheerfully that as it got her out of the house and away from her own cleaning, she didn’t really mind. Sandra was nothing if not upbeat.
Since Scarlett and Matt had been out in the world, she’d been able to retire as she put it, but in a way she missed getting out of the house and having at least a few shillings of her own. Although she’d never had any money for clothes she managed to look as if she did. She was clever at sewing and made herself blouses and dresses from fabric she got at the market, and studied the fashion pages of Woman and Woman’s Own carefully every week.
Today she was wearing a pair of narrow black trousers and a black sweater, as made famous and fashionable by Audrey Hepburn. She did her eye make-up like Audrey’s as well, with thick black eyeliner and heavy eyebrows and had now had her hair cut urchin-style like Leslie Caron in Gigi. She was very much influenced by the cinema: Scarlett had been named after Scarlett O’Hara. Sandra had read Gone With the Wind while she was pregnant and been deeply affected by it, and only some very firm words from Peter Shaw had prevented her from calling their firstborn son Rhett.
‘But he looks just like him,’ she had said, gazing down at the squinting eyes and black hair of the baby. ‘He’s going to be really dark and handsome.’
Peter had told her that no son of his would have a sissy name like Rhett and Matt, when he was told, was extremely grateful to his father.
Scarlett arrived home just after six, rushing in looking crisply businesslike in her navy uniform, engulfing Matt in hugs and kisses.
‘Oh, it’s so lovely to see you. Mum’s been so worried about you, thought you wouldn’t survive.’
‘I’m fine,’ said Matt, ‘course I am. And it’s great to see you too, Scarlett.’
They were very close. There were only seventeen months between them – ‘then Pete found out what was causing it,’ Sandra would explain with one of her earthy giggles – and they had grown up practically as twins. Scarlett had the same thick, dark hair as Matt, the same large dark eyes, set off by absurdly long eyelashes, the same straight nose, the same neat, sharply carved jaw. She exuded vitality as Matt did; she was quite small and very slim and irrepressibly energetic. She had inherited her mother’s eye for clothes and she would devour the fashion magazines noting trends and what they called fashion tips. She had always attracted attention wherever she went, and still more so now, with the sophistication of her new career; indeed the week before she had been photographed at the local dance hall, jiving with a girl friend, a dizzy whirl of flying ponytail and circular skirt, complete with layers of frilled nylon petticoats – all bought in the market and starched with sugar water – and glorious whiteteethed grin. It had appeared in the local paper and Sandra had framed it and hung it in the front room.
Matt was younger than Scarlett, but he had always protected her in the school playground when they were little and guarded her against predatory boys when they grew older, and she acted as dating agent for him, as his good looks turned him into a magnet for her friends.
He was inordinately proud of her and her career, it was a big leap for a girl from Clapham, from a secondary modern. Being an air hostess was about as good a career as a girl could hope for. As good as being a private secretary, only with more prestige. The uniform, the foreign travel, the dashing pilots.
But she had thrown herself into her application, done a Linguaphone course in French, having heard that a second language was a big advantage, and she had a talent for sweeping people along with her enthusiasm, making them believe in whatever she was saying, which had stood her in good stead at her initial interview.
Matt had said he thought you had to be posh to be an air hostess, but Scarlett laughed.
‘Matt! I can be posh. If I try. You know I can.’
This was perfectly true; she had a sharp eye and a distinct talent for the social climb. Her accent could move from Clapham Jun
ction to nice suburban at will, and she knew precisely when and how to tone down her rather exuberant manner.
‘So – what we going to do tonight?’ she said now. ‘I thought we might go to the Lyceum, if you feel up to it.’
‘Course I do.’
They had a good time at the Lyceum; Scarlett invited her friend Josie along, as well as Malcolm, her on–off boyfriend, hauled in when she needed him, dropped again when she didn’t.
Josie liked Matt, in fact she fancied him rotten, and she was fun. Matt had a couple of beers with his dad at the pub before they left and a couple more when they arrived at the dance hall. Exhaustion and the excitement of freedom doubled their potency; he danced the evening away through a haze, not only with Josie, but with several other girls as well.
At one stage he felt sick and dizzy, and had to go outside; Josie followed him, sat down on the steps with him and put her arm round him.
‘Poor old soldier,’ she said. ‘I know what it’s like there, that basic training, me brother did it last year. You must be all in.’
‘Nah,’ said Matt firmly, ‘I’m fine. Thanks.’
‘That’s OK.’
She turned to him, pulled his face to hers and pushed her tongue into his mouth; it was a bit of a surprise, but very pleasant. Especially given the hazy feeling. They staggered up the street a bit, found an alley where he kissed her back very thoroughly and pushed his hand up her sweater onto her breast. Josie seemed to like that. God, he’d forgotten what they felt like, breasts. Hadn’t had the energy to think about them even, the last few weeks. After a while, he moved to her bottom, which was firm and extremely responsive; he felt her grinding her hips into his and he pushed his hand gingerly up her skirt, feeling his way towards her panties. But this was forbidden territory. She pushed his hand down again.
‘No, Matt,’ she said, suddenly sober.
He didn’t care and returned to her breasts. He knew the rules. He’d done pretty well, he thought, really. Later, going home on the tube, she sat with her head on his shoulder.
‘It’s been really nice,’ she said sleepily. ‘I like a soldier boy.’
The Decision Page 3
